Redundance
by buckyromanoff
Summary: In order to move on, Quinn must redefine her past. With Rachel's career elsewhere and the fast accumulating daily struggles of life itself progressing quickly; their relationship is put to the ultimate test. *Updated summary*
1. Chapter 1

Faberry fanfic

...

Quinn's P.O.V 

Direction is redundant without a compass.

It's the same, all-too-familiar feeling. Creeping. Ebbing. Gnawing its way back into your life. The dormancy only temporary, ostensibly so. What an arbitrary thing, you dote quickly. The bitter-sweetness of its return is enough to give you a cavity and a throat infection instantaneously, but remarkably, either consequence isn't as terrible as it sounds. It's conceivable because you know what it's like to not be able to breathe and it trumps all. Everything.

Imperceptibly, you lift up your glasses so that it sits further on the bridge of your nose. Perhaps, it makes you look younger, you muse. Or, more despairingly, that it highlights less the severity of your poor eyesight. Snapping off your glasses, you stride into the kitchen. The faint outline of the hallway in your periphery touches a gentle reminder into your mind that- if only momentarily you were to lose balance; there would be something you could lean onto. You can't help but ponder and quite wistfully, your wife had undoubtedly made that so.

The kitchen is bright once you turn the corner and you forget the esoteric, philosophical garbage you often bring home from work. Your wife hovers at the fridge door. Her dark, but solidly brown hair falls below her shoulders in oppressive, sensible waves and it comforts your racing heart. She turns when she hears your footsteps, and it's neither too late nor early because you feel yourself calm if that is anymore quite possible.

"Quinn", she says and it sounds breathless but full too.

You lock eyes with her, seemingly like how a bull locks eyes with its victim, and its only because you're hungry. You're hungry for contact; her touch, her hands, her body and mostly just her. In spite of this, you keep your distance.

"We're out of wine." She says and looks to you for an explanation. Unintentionally, you feel a frustrated brow rise.

"I missed you." You say, darting a shaking hand behind your back. You know she knows, all too well, the self-imposed guilt you battle with everyday and often, it is the result of your wife's worry she displays too unabashedly. She takes bitten steps forward- short and swift- and holds you in a way that never usually startles you but you jump nonetheless. It's an embrace, you hold onto. Where, it walks the fine line of body against body and touching at arm's length, and done in an effort to not impose; if your space need be. The embrace grants both intentions. But, strangely no matter the distance it never fails to be intimate and you know because you always feel it right there, a place you cannot name or point to, that just strikes you. A tiny zap somewhere inside of your body that has experienced, probably, almost too much peril and you feel- if only fleetingly, restored.

"It's okay." She promises. "It's okay." You feel her slide into you, the way you both had always naturally fit, and you can't help but weakly think through a sudden wave of dizziness, perhaps she and you were meant to be.

"It's okay." She repeats, a hand steadies you as it laces around your waist. You fight a bout of nausea merely so you can look at Rachel's face another time. It's pinched with worry, but what was new- which in fact was very old, was the smile she always just manages to wear in these moments. It always had a way of looking unused and genuine, that you found yourself looking for it more often.

"I'm sorry." You whisper, because it's the only thing you can think of to say. She tut-tuts in response, leading you away from the kitchen to the couch. It takes you awhile to realize your ribs are hurting, and maybe, your lungs are constricting in that well known and disgustingly grotesque way. But it seems, Rachel is already aware of this because she's hastily coming back with some freshly brewed tea and cough medicine.

"I'm not coughing." You resist with a hint of hesitation. She shows no sign of it affecting her mood though and it relieves you a little.

"I know." She nods. "But you were coughing last night." And you look to your shirt, as if to offer blame but it's all too silly for the moment. Cautiously, with the help of Rachel, you step out of your thick tracksuit pants and Yale sweatshirt combo and into something less sweat inducing. All in case of you developing a fever, which seems more likely as the hours pass on. Layers are key. Rachel never fails to remind you that. Wear less in bed and add blankets for warmth, and then take them away if need be, which usually is the case. You never really bring up the notion that it also serves other purposes conveniently, but that is humor saved for another day.

When the TV screen blares with another, overtly in-your-face commercial, Rachel gently picks up the remote and powers it off. You somewhat carefully sit up from Rachel's generously offered sprawled body and crawl to the other side of the couch so you can dip your feet into your ugg boots. She doesn't say anything, as you pull yourself up on your own with a jaw that is locked so hard that you're sure Rachel could see it strain from that distance away. The pain is not unbearable, but unbearable enough to make you want to cry out. You don't though. Unsteadily, you make your way to your room and it's only until you pass the corner and into the long corridor (hallway) that she follows you. Without words, you know that it is because she values your stubborn need to be independent. However, you also know, she wouldn't blink to quickly overlook that if you were to show any signs of it compromising your health. Either way, you love her so. Sometimes, it's the only thing you're sure about. 

...

You dream about the accident. The vast coming together of glass, metal and nerve-numbing pain. But, the impact is the element that shocks you. Your teeth chatter as your lurch forward, the steering wheel spinning is what catches the brunt of your head as it tumbles forward and then your back. In what seems like someone had reached into you and strangled your spine, is compressed from its side. Your left shoulder hurts too, but soon you feel the crushing pain of the dashboard jutting into your ribs and you believe you scream. No one hears you or even can. You're alone, living the unforgiveable moment when you would permanently lose the ability to completely save yourself. Your heart wants to stop, maybe it does.

"Quinn," she says. There's a cool, soft cloth being pressed onto your forehead and you jerk awake. You feel yourself lying in a pool of sweat and you're not sure if it's the nightmare to blame or a fever. The reality doesn't burn as much as it used to- that now in order to save yourself maybe you need her too. It just isn't possible to battle this in the morning alone and maybe you no longer want to because you have her. She's beautiful, ridiculously caring, committed and perfect. You grimace at the pounding headache and then switch to a forlorn gaze as Rachel gently slots a thermometer in her mouth.

"I measured your temperature earlier." She says levelly. Nodding toward the bedside table at the device that is to be placed in one's ear and you stifle a shiver, which isn't an impending cause of the fever. She squeezes your shoulder, knowing how much you hate that thing. She only uses it when you're asleep and mainly because it's reliable.

"It read 102." She says disbelievingly and with a hint of worry. Eyes glazed over by a fever, still, you regard her with utter amazement and bewilderment.

"What did I do to deserve you?" You say. She looks at you only momentarily, averting her attention from the steadily rising mercury levels of the thermometer. You can hear yourself beginning to wheeze, but you hold your breath so she's not distracted enough to leave her gaze. She seems mildly disturbed.

"You needn't do anything to deserve me Quinn. I love you." She says finally.

"But-" You try to interject, but she's quicker only today. Only because you're sick and your mind is scrambling to work through a haze of fever-clouded thought. And, you're slowly but surely running out of breath.

"You're just enough. Always. Even though, you've done so much more than to just deserve me." You gasp in a wheeze as your breath ends and the thermometer falls from your lips. Rachel catches it swiftly and examines it carefully, sliding her fingers away from the mercury as much as possible so as not to tamper the result.

"103.5? Wha-" She breaks out, with shock evident in her posture too because she's already leaning more forward, her eyes inches away from the glass thermometer. She almost turns to use the device you dread, but instead she steels her face towards you.

"Quinn." She says, softly. It nudges you gently. You know what she's asking and there's a part of you that wants to say no out of fear. But there's a greater part of you, a better part of you that urges you to do as she asks. Shakily, you attempt to push yourself up, and this time Rachel doesn't hesitate to help as she jumps to your aid. Slowly you find your shoes, and she hands you an inhaler. You attempt to pass her a questioning look, but she's already speed walking around the bed to your dresser, deftly searching for appropriate clothes. You use the inhaler despite not really knowing how to and consider walking up to Rachel to help her with the clothes, but your legs are heavy like weights and you still feel like you can't breathe.

The world spins briefly as she marches you out the door, but never once do you entertain the possibility of falling down because Rachel refuses too. Her hands a firmly wrapped around your arm as she steers you to the car and seemingly tucks you into the back seat, gently pulling the seat belt over you that it doesn't place too much stress on your chest. Your wheezing louder now, as Rachel falls into the driver's seat slightly breathless. She looks so worried as she regards you through the rearview mirror that you almost force yourself to feel good enough so you can step out of the car and come to her side in reassurance. But that doesn't happen. As the car pulls away, she finally to talks to you since measuring your temperature upon your awake and rushing out of the house.

"I love you, Quinn." She says, and there are tears in her eyes- shadows of fear and hysteria bubbling at the edge of her waterline and of course the concern is there also. But more importantly, you have learned well to find- amongst all that- the love that's there too. So as your eyes begin to droop, you attempt to tell her that exact same thing, albeit, through fits of coughing and raspy breathing until you realize your body won't let you. Yet somewhere, between arriving at the hospital and being pulled away to get an MRI, miraculously, your hands finds hers and you say to her possessively- a tone you don't take enough- I love you too. That, you will learn to do even better.

...

Let me know if you want me to continue or not. Just comment:) Might do Rachel's P.O.V next?


	2. Chapter 2

Author's note:

I usually write in 3rd person, but since reading a few of my favourite short collections of stories done in 2nd person I've decided to try out. Let me know what you think!

...

Rachel P.O.V

There are days she stands tall, you know. You never forget. When her figure isn't held up by a guiding hand, a walking stick or any other variables but just herself. She's the strongest person you know, and even as you glance at her from behind a glass door- she has tubes running through her chest, some along her nose and an I.V attached to her hand, that standalone image your wife always tries to remind you of isn't needing of reminding. Sometimes, the days you do see Quinn like this are the ones when you believe she is standing the tallest. Today is no different.

You expect that Quinn will brush off the nurses, snap at the therapist perhaps, and even with her usual, stunning glare, challenge the doctor in discharging her early. Her blonde hair is warped around the pillow in such a fashion it almost makes you want to laugh, but the absurdity of it does not in any way subtract from her beauty. She is gorgeous, you know that. So impossibly flawless you worry what it might do to her. Things that are that perfect, don't last long- like a bright, stray, once-in-a-lifetime shooting star. She will be there only briefly and then pass your sight. This, haunts you.

You twist the knob of the door; feel the click through your shaking wrist as you enter the room. It smells like it always does; lavender soap and medicine. It doesn't perturb you though, because as you near the hospital bed with the dreadfully pale white sheets and the hospital-like pattern-less patterned blankets, your wife sleeps there and it smells just like Quinn. You remember a time when you couldn't leave her side because you were afraid she'd be taken away and you wouldn't be able to smell her quite literally ever again. It was senior year of high school of course, directly after the accident and still, it affects you in ways only your wife knows about. She's so smart and you always pay her this. She is so much more than her face. Perpetually, you feel the need to remind her of that at the very least.

You grasp the prescription for anti-depressants in your hands tightly. Your attention flickering from Quinn to outside the room. You mustn't forget to inform her doctor to administer her medication. You don't intend on tampering with the schedule Quinn's psychiatrist has set out for her. For now, it has been working well. As you sit on the edge of Quinn's bed, your hands gently playing music to her leg, you feel your phone buzz. Tensely, you string it out of your pocket, and bring it to your ear. You don't forget to turn away slightly so that your face is hidden from Quinn's line of sight in case she is to wake up, but your hand never leaves Quinn.

"Yes?" You say, relatively amenably.

"I rang you last night." Her voice is accusatory, but only minimally. "You didn't answer…and Quinn's not answering. Wanna tell me what's going on?" She says. Immediately, your shoulders relax or maybe they slouch.

"Santana-" You say.

"I'm not mad." She interrupts. Her voice rises slightly. Clearly, she is. "I just rang because Kurt's trying to get to you. Something about a new role?" You have the urge to leave the room all of the sudden, but you eye Quinn's doctor who is not too far away.

"Santana." You repeat. "I'm in the hospital right now." You hear her fall silent.

"Okay." She pauses. "I figure it's time I saw her anyway." You're not too sure if it's a good idea for Santana to come just yet, but you would never stop her. "She hasn't been taking good care of herself has she? I knew it. I had that feeling like I always do."

"It's not serious." You say, somewhat guiltily, risking a peek in Quinn's direction. You briefly wonder if she's listening, but quickly reject the possibility. "If it was, I would've-"

"It's fine, Berry." Santana interjects. "Judy, Frannie -they'll understand. I get it." Nonchalance rubbed through her tone like sandpaper to rough concrete.

"No, you don't." You hear your voice tremble- high pitched like you're singing a ballistic melody and inevitably, feel that hole in you throat widen. "You don't know what it's like to arrive at the hospital and see your wife surrounded by her family and friends, maintaining a kind of beside vigil. I-" You choke on your words and you don't say that it reminds you of the accident.

"Berry, it's okay." Santana is much softer. Kinder. "I won't tell Judy or Frannie... But, they will have to find out eventually…by you or-"

"I know." There's silence. "You can come." You whisper, and you almost hear Santana smile through the phone. "I knew you had it in you, Berry." She says. You hang up and the phone slides onto your lap as Quinn's doctor pushes the glass door open.

"Hi." He says. You've never seen him before. You don't know him, is what you really mean, but he looks at you like you've met before.

"Hi." You shakily rise up from the bed and you're sure your skirt is probably semi-twisted around your waist. He doesn't show any sign of noticing however, sliding a gloved hand out of his pocket, he brandishes it. A smile that is charming even to you, catches you somewhat off-guard as he slickly tugs the glove off.

"Dr Matthew Harper." The snap of the glove provides that extra sting to his low voice, and you want to shiver. Apprehensively, you take his hand and he shakes it.

"Rachel Berry." You say. He nods and then he reminds you of why he is a doctor. Or Quinn's to be specific. He's holding a 7-inch thick folder of your wife's medical history, his hands are long and slim- so are his fingers- and they are perfect enough to reach into your wife's chest to her lungs without disturbing anything else. But also, you notice sharply, there's a scar that runs along his wrist.

"She will be fine." He starts and you feel your body twitch at his statement. "She does have a mild case of pneumonia however, she will be staying at least until tomorrow. We'll see how quickly her body responds to the antibiotics." You eventually nod out of respect as he adds. "It's only a matter of time before she's better." He smiles and maybe you forgive his charm a little, despite hearing this reassurance many times before.

"She doesn't need surgery?" You ask as he strides towards the door, and you sound relieved. He shakes his head at that. "Before you go," you cut in a little coldly too, "I have this." You raise your hand with the anti-depressant prescription and he glances at it with an envious quality of amusement. Just as you pull, you're sure, one of your many petulant faces Dr Matthew breaks out into an enigmatic grin. "She already told me." He says and you look at Quinn with a bit of befuddlement as you mouth forms a perfect 'O'. Perhaps, you should've known better. Lowering Quinn's prescription in one hand, you feel your face heat. He says quite sternly after awhile- your body now having scooted closer to Quinn that you feel her breath against your skin- "Your wife was quite adamant that it could not wait until after the MRI." You smile really hard at that, and it's almost as hard as you fell for her, all those years ago.

…

Santana braids your hair ruthlessly to your despair, and offers no respite. You both have been looking at Quinn all day, and seemingly, Santana has grown increasingly edgy and you don't deny the fact that maybe you have as well.

"Santana." You say, as she snaps the elastic band around your hair. Your scalp stings.

"Now I'm not sure whether to call you midget-troll or woodland elfy, manhands." She says as she gazes at her artwork.

"I don't know." You say, and you can't rid the small whine that escapes your voice. "They all sound new to me." Santana rolls her eyes at that.

"Santana." There's a groan that finally isn't from you. "What did I say about teasing?" Her voice croaks and you dangerously want to grab her and take her into your arms. You miss her so much in spite of being by her side for most of the day. Her health though, overcomes any impulses you have. You watch her breathe shallowly and with difficulty, and in this moment, you're not sure what to do.

Quinn takes your hand. For once, Santana doesn't say anything. "I'm glad you're okay, Q." Santana offers Quinn gently as a solid minute passes. It's something warm and kind and strangely, with no expiration. Surprisingly, you don't take that away from her.

After awhile Quinn says, "You have no idea what it's like to wake up in a room, that isn't in chaos. Mom and Frannie's pacing even makes me panic." Her words slur." Most days I'd be flattered- "

Santana and you smile. She coughs a little and the heart monitor spikes briefly. You cradle the sight you like best; Quinn's hair firmly braided in Brittany inspired pigtails and the way she's grinning at your hand that is tightly entangled around hers like it is a briar bush she wants to tame. You wish this forever even though all she has is a life-span.

"Don't you cry on me, Berry." You look up, believing it is Santana for a moment. But it's your wife, she's still grinning, but this time she's the Quinn from high school. You're very fond of her too. "I'm not dying." She says, fingering the lapel of your jacket and then, dancing those slim fingers up and over to your shoulder. "I'm not going anywhere." Her fingers rest on your cheek, they stay there. You have to work very hard to keep the tears from escaping, even when your wife makes you love like no one else. 'It's not fair' you want to say and it's horrible because it is your fault. Then it's terrifying, because you know Quinn won't blame you and won't condone at all any such wasteful thoughts.

"You're sick." You say. Santana squirms in her seat.

"Right." Quinn agrees. "That is all." The night takes away any unanswered obfuscating feelings, and you jest at its power, maybe it's Quinn that draws them away. Then, you allow this ephemeral sentiment, ' _maybe she hides them away for herself, believing that if she took it all away and could no longer see them on your face then perhaps they didn't exist_.' Some nights though, you don't pretend, the growing pile of junk you see under her guard. _She's a hoarder_ , you think. _What a scandal. Her picture-perfect presence shows no signs._

 _..._

 _Please Review:)_

I'd love to hear your opinions!


	3. Chapter 3

Hi guys, sorry for the long wait. It seems as though I've had a writer's block for about two weeks or so. Not that I am uninspired or anything of that nature, it's more that there were just too many emotions I was contending with in this story to make a coherent chapter. I guess too many hours were spent inside of my head. Herein, there's probably a lot of complex thought or inferences. Regardless, the chapter has arrived! Right?

Let me know what you think ;)

Also, check out can't help falling in love (Keaton Henson's cover). It's beautiful!

...

Chapter 3

Trigger warnings (Just a disclaimer)

 _The temperament of your conscience is impetuous. It's chronic dawn of devastation and destruction is ravaged through a dark, hallowed flame you prefer to keep secret. Under guard. Few have known the true elements it offers and you, with your prudent and inherited grace, have it swept under a guised rug. An artifact that has its viewing on desperate occasion._

Dark, polished nails; deep and incongruous to the ambition she preys, grazes the coffee stained paper of your diary. You glance up.

"I'm sorry." She says. The coffee mark, she claims with a tidying thumb.

There's a rope that attaches itself to your throat and it tightens, but a wafting smell awakens your senses. You exhale. Her coffee breath moves you like always. "Feeling…morbid? The tightness in your throat you swallow down, as your mind probes where it doesn't belong. Rachel laughs; it's dark and luscious. Her brunette tresses tumble down her shoulders in a manner just so, her child-like fingers could brush them away.

"Insufficient. I'm feeling insufficient." She supplies, the brown in her eyes sparkle as she says it and you feel your chest expand as you slip her a smile. The coffee cup is tardily pushed away from the reach of your diary and you don't oppose the gesture.

"What can I do to make it otherwise?" Bravado steels your exterior.

"Quinn." She warns as though she knows you are about to kick off the hospital blanket and start laps with the I.V. pole. Only she knows how good you are with a pole, but you both never talk about that night. She squints at her lap, her eyelashes fluttering. It is apparent she holds back.

"My writing," You start because she won't. "You don't like it." Rachel's indifferent expression falters slightly, but she still miraculously maintains anonymity.

"I know how important it is to you." She says slowly and your jaw unwittingly hardens. Rachel grips at the fabric of her skirt like she struggles to stop herself, you watch those hands turn white. You watch them like you do always.

"I hate it." Your voice splinters and she regards you with a look that is eerily desperate (she had been stung). Perhaps she had caught on to your involuntary, well-hidden display of frustration. "I never use to write like this at all." You say and she pauses mid-stare at your hand, that you're sure her eyes swallow it whole. That, you're sure, because you've been lost under her gaze before, that they bear the same intensity she carries to work and home each and everyday. The soul of her music, the soul of her soul. It devours you complete and absolute. She takes your hand and you forget a little of the dark, treacherous and tried road you were in danger of travelling. You take a different path - less travelled. "The only thing I wrote about was project deadlines and college hook-ups." You say. You don't know at which point Rachel had departed her attention to the 'other place', but you see her eyebrows raise at the bed sheets.

"Maybe you don't like it." She shrugs, there's no smile at the mercy of her lips, no titled expression. Her gaze steers toward you. "But you do write because it helps."

"Because I have to." The voice that escapes your throat sounds tired. "I'm compelled to, and it's not just because **she** thinks to say so." Rachel shakes her head, unhappy with the attitude of the statement. She would scold you, you know, but she doesn't because you're still not 100%.

" ' **She'** is right." She says. "It helps you express things you can't tell me, or even yourself."

"I show you everyday." You counter. Your pulse quickens on the underside of your wrist. You feel it thump, only there.

"And some things, " She says sullenly, her hands coming together on her lap like a point of finality. "Can't be shown." You know what she means and there's a jolt that rattles along your spine, every nerve firing in response to a stimulus too harsh to squander. At that moment, the door is forced open. You hear the hinges squeak in protest and Rachel jump to her feet. Bitter emotion erupts inside of you, as though a rare, polished stone has just been snatched away. Santana strides in oblivious, her hips swaying to the rhythm of her own beat, and you register that same testing presence the girl always brings.

"Good news." Santana ventures. Rachel stiffens slightly and you push yourself into a sitting position, aspiring to be a part of the conversation. Santana watches you with an alarmed look until Rachel rushes to your side. She rearranges your pillows and blanket and you glance away, partially embarrassed and upset.

"Dr Harper is willing to discharge you early." A voice protrudes from the door. There's an urge to push it back, but there's also an urge to discover his contention- you're not afraid to hang him out to dry. He steps in; his soft, honey hair slicked back, long elegant fingers pulled behind him and holding, you automatically presume, your results. He looks relieved as he walks toward your assigned hospital bed; a smile breaking out across his face like uncontrolled acne. Perhaps, you are the only good news he will be telling today. You leave 'hanging him out to dry' for another time.

"You're results are back." He says, approaching the bed and the sun falls away from your window. The light on your doctor's face ebbs away and it seems the day, that is here quite often, has left so its' presence could be in a place elsewhere. On cue he says, "I'd say they're promising." The room's lighting kicks in and it's blinding inside.

…

The car ride home is silent, for the first time you don't hear the engine of the car, the traffic outside, or even ' **you'** most of all. The noise you make of just living, you do not hear. The luxury of sitting in the back seat is not an option for you today and it is a distraction enough to forget that maybe there is reason you need to talk to Dr Beckwith.

The car pulls up at the house and a childish urge to lock yourself in the car creeps up on you.

"Something's wrong." Rachel says. "I just- I just can't escape the feeling that there's something wrong." You don't say anything. You see her bite her lip through your periphery. "There's something wrong Quinn." By this time, her hands are off the steering wheel and unchecking your seat belt from its holder. She pulls the belt off of you and she touches you lightly on your arm.

"I'm sorry." The sound of her voice threads though every dark thought in your mind. "I shouldn't have made you sit at the front. I thought maybe something was up and I just kind of hoped it wasn't the case. But you're not okay."

"It doesn't take a doctor to see that. I can see that you're not okay, Quinn. Please-"

You finally have the courage to look at her and you're flashed with a memory of the long and difficult time it had taken you to be able to sit in a car again. The prospect of this bearing similarity to that, frightens you.

"Rachel." You approach slowly. Her eyes dart, perhaps she's concerned whether she's in fact ready to face what you're about to say. But you say, "Can we go inside?" Her hand tightens its' grip on the sleeve of your jumper as though she isn't ready for you to leave the car just yet, as thought there's a part of her that doesn't quite believe what you said. However, she lets go; unnaturally, in great protest her fingers retract from your arm and she pulls the keys from ignition.

"Yeah." She says. She nods. You push open your door and then she does too. You both look at each other from either side of the car. It's a dusty red Chevrolet Impala, your least expensive gift to Rachel in which she never had the heart to trade in. She's no taller than she was in High School but she appears taller now, the car like a barrier in time, you think you're staring at a lens into the future. You finally see how much she's grown, how far the distance she's travelled.

"We aren't kids no longer, are we?" You say to her later that night, when she's midway through a text message with your doctor. You're naked, the scars on your back made more apparent by the lighting in the room. She's sitting there at your dresser more content than she has ever been this week. Perhaps with your permission to see Dr Beckwith again this month, or your word of a confession, or for the first time in years a sense of resolve finally underpinning your relationship, your wife is able to relax.

"No." She says, and there's nothing to be said about that. But by the way she smiles, the way it's the same, the way it will always be the same suggests otherwise.

She takes her phone to the queen size bed you lay in, but deposits it as far from the both of you as possible. You don't question this and you don't suggest a safer option like the bedside table. Her breath slices along your abdomen to your chest, to your chin. A long black, strong and pure, sharp to the senses, to the touch.

"Quinn." She guides, as she pulls up her face parallel to yours. "We're 23." You search for song references, but you come up blank. Her expression presses onto something you highly anticipate and incidentally, something you are also unsure of.

"In Broadway terms, that's quite young."

"I'm not in Broadway, Rachel." She sends you a disbelieving look. "You could be." Your hair twirls around Rachel's fingers, she busies herself with it. "With what, your vocal habits and stage presence."

"I'm not singing to you tonight." You say, your voice still croaky, hoarse and raspy.

"Who said I wasn't into a bit of country? I like gravelly voices." You pass her a doubtful look.

"Pitchy is just fine too." She slides her small hand over your ribs; the scars there almost seem to beckon her. You watch Rachel kiss them.

"I know you have a lung infection, but Dr Harper says your lungs are pretty much clear." She adds, "And I heard you in the shower so I know you can." You take her hands in yours. She smiles, that hope you fell in love with in high school, ghosts itself in front of you.

It's not country, but it plays on your mind all day everyday. You touch her cheek hesitantly, she lets you but there's always something about it that pulls you back. You know this ballad she usually sings to you, but tonight your voice runs through the vocals. Your voice alone. As you take in her unmistakable beauty, your notes quiver. "Wise meenn say". Rachel smiles. "Only fooolss rush in."

Rachel strikes an imaginary guitar, at this point she's grinning. "But I, cannn't help, falllllling in loove wiith you." Your lips twitch as you watch her antics.

She shuts her eyes as she conducts the music, she guides you in. "Shallll III stay?" You gladly obey.

Rachel hums, her tiny fingers strumming your chest. "Would it beeeee uhh sin?"

If I, cannn't help, fallling in loove wiith you?" Rachel locks eyes with you. Like a river flows surely to the sea, she rolls onto you softly, predatorily. Her lips tumble onto yours. You don't know when or how, but you hear the soft music play from Rachel's phone.

"Take myyy hand." It sings. You arch your body underneath her as she blows raspberries over you abdomen. It's strangely euphoric, quaintly natural to you. The fine hairs on your skin want to edge away from the tickling sensation it creates, but your nerves- despite seizing violently- torture you with feeling, something you don't undervalue.

She's gentle as she takes reign of your body. It's the only time you allow yourself to relinquish control. The only time you feel safe doing so. She carries you away, like she always does. She makes you forget about all the insecurities, mistakes and past horrors. She makes you forget about everything but one thing.

Afterwards, you slip into a deep sleep and you dream about nothing. The rain wakes you in time for the next day and you forgo your morning run for breakfast. Rachel still slumbers, but you don't wake her because you know she spent most of the night watching you. Her dark hair colors the pale, white sheets of your bed as she lies there and you ponder as to what art this is. The phone is on the floor like most mornings. Stiffly, your back concaves so you are able to pick it up. Five missed calls from Kurt, one from Santana and a text message from Dr Beckwith. You straighten yourself out slowly, every muscles seems to ache. You wonder where the dancer in you has gone.

"Rachel. " You whisper. Your voice is louder than expected and you question whether your old one would ever return.

There's movement from the bed. It's faintly comical. Rachel sits up and you want to laugh, as much as her hair is for most part perfect, it appears it has lost its touch.

"What?" She says eyeing your amusement. She peers down at herself, examining her oversized T-shirt and then her skin- for hickeys you presume.

"What?" She repeats, this time with a smile that exudes lazy Sunday mornings. You laugh, then, she does.

"I like your hair." You say. She rolls her eyes. "You know how much Broadway talks about young, distinct stars." She shrugs. "They want authenticity."

"Like you'd ever turn up to work like that." Alarm permeates her features as she registers perhaps what you're really teasing about. "It's just not professional."

Rachel's in the bathroom before you can count to one. "Oh my goodness!" She shrieks. The bathroom door slams shut. "I'm never using your straightener ever again!"

"You hear me Quinn?!" She yells as you spin on your heels to get away.

...

Once again, please review :)

I love reading all your thoughts and opinions!


	4. Chapter 4

In reply to:

SpurBoy- _I appreciate the honest opinion! As for your questions/confusion this chapter will provide a lot of the answers, so keep reading. In upcoming chapters, you'll be able to see the root cause and potential troubles in their relationship, i.e. Rachel's work, e.t.c. ... Ultimately, I'd like to keep them together, but there will be some obstacles they'll need to tackle first together or, apart. Realistically, in relation to the antidepressants, I'll confess there has been an incident with Quinn that hasn't really been addressed in their relationship yet, which may progress to a make or break… We'll see ;)_ – [As for any ambiguities I'll try do a little more telling and less showing.]

Also, if you guys have any further questions, tips, or even just praise, I'd love to credit you all in this section! So don't be afraid to comment/review :)

…

Chapter 4

Rachel P.O.V

The syrup is bitter. It sticks to the palate of your mouth and you reconsider the honey, but Quinn has the "tub" bundled up in the crook of her elbow. Apparently, she knows better.

There's a smile finely sewed onto her face, and you're happy that she's happy, if only mildly. The kitchen counter vibrates as your phone buzzes for the third time, and you glance at it. It's Jane, your agent, and for obvious reasons shouldn't be ignored. Defiantly though, your eyes follow Quinn who still hums an unrecognizable melody as though she's unable to hear the slightly intractable and self-righteous phone of yours. Against your better side of judgment, you pick up the phone to decline the call, but Quinn drops the peanut butter. It rolls onto the counter with a loud clang and her face flushes. Meanwhile, your phone's ringtone continues to plummet a confronting and unfortunate tune.

"Quinn." You say. She looks like a fish that has been thrown out of the water. Uncomfortable and dying.

"Answer it." She bites. Disgusted by the call itself, you remove yourself from the kitchen and stride in to your office. Frustration pushes you in a direction you despair to go toward.

"Hello?" You answer.

"Rachel." She cuts. You're made aware of how disappointed she is. Her voice is so sharp; you wonder if you'll bleed once this phone call is done.

"I don't know where your youthful, and entirely refreshing sense of ambition has gone but I hope you've found it."

"About that-"

"I don't care that Quinn has been sick and you, needless to say, had to take care of her all week. I don't care, Rachel, because it's no excuse to ignore important phone calls."

"I agree-" You begin, but Jane it seems, is not having any of it.

"I was considerate. Kind. Polite. I had Kurt call you instead, who told me he had a close friend of yours also call you. Can you believe it?"

"Okay-"

"Maybe, next time, I should just call Quinn." You're left silent. That was a step too far, a blow too low. Jane clears her throat and no amount of clearing, you're sure, could clear the amount of bullcrap coming out now.

"Do you have any idea how many opportune roles could've passed you by?" You heart skips a beat. "Now," She digresses "I know this phone call hasn't been nice and we both know that the prospect of having this conversation with me has been a long time coming. An event you've been trying to deflect, I'm sure, in the best possible way. But it's here." She sighs.

"Whether this is something to discuss with Quinn or not, is none of my business. But if it is, it's something that needs to happen soon." You hear papers ruffle on the other side of the phone. "I've managed to, don't ask how, convince the director to give you a couple more days to prepare something resembling a 'Rachel Berry quality' audition." You're mouth forms a giant 'O', you're not sure a 'Rachel Berry quality audition' is conceivable at this point.

"He's interested is what matters." Jane steams through. "And, it's a role that will put you in good stead for the rest of your flipping career." She takes in a quick breath. Meanwhile, you feel the knife of anxiety channel you. It edges closer, and you don't think you can deal with that sort of imminence.

"You've got until the end of this week, Rachel. A flight will be organized from Boston to New York, as you already know, it will be difficult to travel back and forth, so don't bring too little." She pauses briefly. "It's going to be an intense schedule, but this is something I know you've been waiting on for a very long time." The line sort of falls silent on both ends.

"I trust you will get back to me on this, Rachel." You don't say anything. Then, she adds almost sparingly. "Anything you may need to talk to Quinn about, perhaps now is as a good time as any."

The clock in your office seems to tick by and you refrain from counting. "We're not there." You say finally.

"Hmm?" Jane lets out.

"We're just not ready. I don't think we're there yet." You say. "-to be able to discuss this. There are so many things-"

"I hate to be the person to say it," Even though she always is. "but," you wait for it as you know you must. "Chances like this aren't just going to wait for you. They come and they go. They don't care what's happening in your personal life, whether your relationship is ready for it or not. They just arrive, ruthlessly inconsiderate and earnestly promising. Ultimately Rachel, what you choose to do is completely up to you, but I prefer, you make a decision than not make one at all."

"Okay." The air circles around you quicker and tighter. Each of you wait for the other to end the call.

Jane eventually breaks the silence. "Tell Quinn I said hi."

"I will." You reply and you hear, without pause, the phone on the other end flat-line. The panic in you rises to a climax, but fortunately, you manage to breathe the stress out.

"Quinn." You call. You hear voices surfacing from the kitchen and you abandon your phone to find your wife.

Noticeably, the kitchen is now spotless clean when it hadn't been before, and the dishes put away. Quinn stands to the side on the phone, nodding incessantly, and she looks up when she hears you round the kitchen counter. Wordlessly, she busies herself with the phone wire, wrapping it around her finger and then, doing the opposite. You observe she's not wearing her ring and you attempt to recall whether she had been wearing it during breakfast. Before you come to a conclusion, Quinn's phone call picks up pace suddenly and within seconds she's already exchanging a goodbye before you can decipher who it is she's talking to.

"Rachel." She smiles as she reconnects the phone to its port.

"Who was it?" You ask. Quinn shrugs, sliding herself across the tiles towards you. She reaches into your pockets, empty, and pulls you into a backward embrace.

"Was it Genevieve?" Quinn's quick to shake her head.

"No." She says. "It was Shelby."

"Oh."

"Was nothing really." Quinn admits, tugging at some fluff caught in her blonde curl.

"Did you talk to Beth?" You feel Quinn abandon the embrace to sit on the kitchen stool. She still looks flushed.

"Yes. She's good." She answers, and you know not to press any further. Not that she wouldn't tell you, you'd just prefer Quinn to go see Dr Beckwith in a good mood than not.

…

As you approach the car to leave for the appointment, Quinn stops to examine her dress and you hover in case of something, but she snaps her heavy gaze toward you. Her hazel eyes penetrate yours, and you wish you could just tell her about your job opportunity. Not yet, you promise yourself, not at least until you're sure she's ready. When you feel the car dip beneath with you with Quinn's added weight, you're finally unafraid to relax. She sits by your side, exceeding any expectations you have, and you show your appreciation when you reach for her hand. She squeezes it. "Love you." She whispers. You start the car, adjusting the rearview mirror, observing the side mirrors, and then a final head check. "I love you too." You say as you glance at her one last time before steering out of the driveway.

The journey from the house to the clinic is short and strangely bittersweet. You're so eager to check in, you consider just grabbing Quinn and serenading her in. However, Quinn is purposefully slow as she leaves the car. She ducks behind the passenger mirror, reapplying her lip-gloss then opening the glove box to stash it back away. By the time Quinn and you finally walk into the clinic, it is abnormally deserted and Dr Beckwith is already there to meet you. The doctor smiles as she catches sight of you both.

"Quinn! Rachel!" She greets with a noncommittal wave. Sidestepping reception, the three of you wonder in to Dr Beckwith's office. You hear Quinn mutter to mainly you as you take a seat in front of Dr Beckwith's desk, "Are we even late?" It's left for a short time unanswered, but then you puff out your cheeks with a smile you're unable to contain any other way. It triggers a smile on Quinn you'd die for to see again.

"Well." Dr Beckwith surrenders. Quinn's folder sits on the doctor's desk alone, no parent, no association, separate from everything else.

"How are you feeling Quinn?"

"Better." Quinn nods. But the happiness that was there is gone.

"What about your back?" Quinn stiffens. It rings alarm bells in your mind and immediately you squeeze her hand. She doesn't relax.

"I don't see how that's relevant." She says softly. Dr Beckwith, largely unaffected, beams a warm smile that is stuck-fast.

"Depends." She says. "Does it in any way contribute to, say, your emotional state?"

Quinn shakes her head admonishingly, "No." There's a small pause. "My back is fine. It plays up some days, but others, its okay. I think stretching helps. I'm doing yoga so…"

"You used to do cheering." Dr Beckwith recalls.

"Yep." Quinn bites her lip. "I run too, if I need to do something vigorous."

"So this is a chronic thing?" The doctor unfolds her glasses from its case, and rests it on her rather roman-sized nose.

"What?"

"Your back? You experience chronic pain. "

"No." Quinn immediately affirms. "It's not severe. They say it shouldn't-If I take care of myself, it wouldn't be a problem."

"Okay." Dr Beckwith writes something down. You feel your wife fidget with your fingers. It actually hurts.

"I heard you just went through a bout of pneumonia." Beckwith continues. Quinn turns toward you briefly, but it's not accusatory. She nods in acknowledgement.

"Yes, that's true." Beckwith opens Quinn's folder and flicks through the pages. Quinn squirms against the chair and you attempt to reassure her but your voice has miraculously disappeared. "My accident." Quinn voice curls like a spring, forecasting Beckwith's forthcoming question. "Yes, it did some damage to my lungs. It just-it makes me more prone to lung infections and asthma attacks." Beckwith takes off her glasses and examines Quinn properly.

"You know Quinn, this doesn't define you." She says. "It doesn't have to. " She closes Quinn's folder. "There's so much in here to read that I don't know if it's worth your time if I were to read it right now. That, and I don't think it would be fair if I were to make a judgment based on what others have either objectively or subjectively written about you." Quinn's eyebrows furrow, you feel yourself flounder a little. What is she getting at?

"I would like to get to know you through you. Now, I know this isn't our first session but I feel there's still so much more to know. Right?" Quinn doesn't say anything.

"So Quinn," Beckwith starts as though she has just been validated, by whom you're not sure. "Why are you here?" Quinn jerks away; her posture fumbling, she rattles. Dr Beckwith's eyes are imposing, intruding and it seems, not even Quinn can parry them.

"I-I" She stutters. Quinn picks at her hand, pinching herself over and over. You feel yourself slip forward on your seat, you won't hesitate to end this session if need be.

Beckwith pushes persistently though. "Why another time this month?"

Quinn raises her eyebrow; you know, a reaction when all else fails. She's speechless, unable to move, talk, and blink. An awkward silence ensues and you're surprised to see Quinn's eyes beginning to gleam with tears. She has never let herself fall vulnerable in front of anyone in a position of seniority. What surprises you more though, despite the obvious affliction, she finally provides the doctor with, "Sometimes, I can't sit in the front passenger seat. I panic."

"Okay." The female doctor appreciates. "Is there a certain reason you could, say, point to as to why?"

Quinn shakes her head stiffly, very slight and discrete. You notice with concern at that moment, Quinn's sudden shift in demeanor. Her shoulders are pitched forward and sitting upward beyond the height than what it is meant. You can almost sniff how high-strung she is at this point.

"That's perfectly normal, Quinn." Beckwith shares. "It will be something we'll definitely work on. I don't want to do too much today, but, this is something you could do at home. How about sitting in the front passenger seat of the car whilst it's stationery and practicing dispelling any anxiety from there first? I always find listening to calming music helps, even the sounds of waves. All great options."

You glance at the pamphlet Dr Beckwith slides across the table. Quinn makes no move to retrieve it, so you do, tucking it away safely in your purse. "Then we'll start introducing variables later on and see what could be triggering your anxiety." She smiles an astoundingly prudent smile.

How does that sound?" Quinn clears her throat, her hazel eyes hardening. Her tears, astonishingly, are dried and therefore absent. As quickly as she had faltered her facade, you watch her rebuild it. A front comprised of determination and fundamental distance.

"Do you have anything else you would like to tell me Quinn?"

Quinn tugs at your hand, pressing a thin grimace on her lips as she swivels on her chair to look at you. As rude and socially obnoxious the gesture probably is from the point of view of Dr Beckwith of course, it's a little endearing to say the least. Quinn says in a low beckoning voice; her attention directly on your conscience. "I have something to say." It occurs to you in an inexplicable moment of realization, that this is the confession she promised. Albeit, you hadn't expected her to pick this time to come out with it. But nonetheless, you're undeniably thrilled that it's happening at all this soon.

"I know you've been wanting…"She starts. Involuntarily, your fingers lace around Quinn's as she drops her gaze to the floor. "And I keep putting it off saying that we should wait till August so it will coincide with our anniversary. But, it's a lie." She looks toward you, worried. Yet, biting her lip, she ploughs through with what you assume remains thereof your encouraging expression. "I mean, that would be nice, but after Beth-" She pauses briefly, hesitatingly. "I don't know if I can do it again." You nod robotically at that- at that kind of confirmation you are all of the sudden dreading. You release a shaky breath and instantaneously comprehend an unidentifiable wash of emotion befalling you. You can't explain it, the tears that appear in your eyes. Like an unpredictable downfall of spattered rain pelting from the slight grey of the clouds, it takes over the world below. A baby, a family you tried to not want so bad, explicitly apparent and in full view of your wife who herself couldn't reconcile with just yet. It's devastating, the inability to discontinue your display of heartache when it shouldn't mean so much. When it shouldn't be this important to you, but is.

You can see Quinn begin to panic and Dr Beckwith, somewhat encumbered with what has just happened, freezes behind the protection of her desk. But there are so many things, at this point, that are too out of your control for you to be able to remedy anything at all. You feel the ground shake, an earth-shattering illusion striking this office, your composure, and you're left with no balance.

"Rachel." She says. "I'm sorry." You don't remember how or when, but Quinn's hands are suddenly out of your possession and she's standing up from her chair. An abrupt escalation in what seemed to be earlier on, a calm consultation. She's trembling so hard that you can practically hear it and you're sure it's the case because she fumbles to push her chair away.

"Quinn." Dr Beckwith says tightly as Quinn edges toward the door. Your legs are too weak to push your body up from the chair and they impede any life-saving desire to help your wife. So you watch, in some ridiculous state of paralysis, as she turns to look at you mournfully, her eyes tragic like the time of her accident- and it frightens you, this scale of pain.

"Rachel." The female doctor calls softly. Quinn leaves; the door is closed shut behind her- it's before anything more can be done or undone. In sheer desperation, you wait for the tiny possibility that the door reopens with her presence. It doesn't.

"Rachel." Beckwith repeats but in such a tone that is harshly awakening. You glance down. Quinn's taken the keys from your hand. She has left, and possibly, with the car.

...

Once again please leave a review ;)


	5. Chapter 5

Hey! New Chapter guys! Heads up, it's a little sad and emotional.

...

Chapter 5

Quinn P.O.V

It hails, in your head. Sharp pellets of ice come blasting towards you, carving deep, thorough and stitch-worthy lacerations to your already battered mind. The keys weigh heavily in your hand and you feel yourself round the car twice. On your third attempt, you manage to find the driver's door and throw yourself in. It feels like you fall for a while, as though the seat has disappeared and you are in fact plunging to the grating, coarse road below. But the car is still there, in tact, and you're decision to escape still resolute. The seatbelt, only but a fleeting reminder you don't realize you obey, until the keys are in ignition and the engine is roaring to life. _Don't drive yet. Don't move. Don't accelerate._ The panic you talk about arrives on cue and you attempt to thwart the tightening in your chest. _Breathe_. Eliciting a simulation of Rachel's voice proves difficult and perhaps, counterproductive. She is, after all, what you're trying to escape from, if only briefly. _You're in her way, Quinn._ You feel yourself chant. _She wants a family and you can't give her that._ Amongst the searing rationale, the handbrake is pushed to its down position and your foot pounds the accelerator. Heedlessly, you're barreling onto the main road, your thoughts erratic and probably you're driving too.

The radio shows up when you reach the first traffic light. 'Stop,' you slam the brakes. Everything jerks forward. 'In the name of love.' A horn, unmistakably, beeps behind you as the music takes a turn for the chorus and your heart, abandons it's intended steady pace. Conversely, it begins to compound frequency at a frightening speed. You watch, with great punctuality, the quickly disappearing control. Up ahead, the traffic lights pulsate a definite green - you should be moving forward, but, you're foot is too heavy on the brakes. You don't believe you can reconcile with the accelerator either. The horn beeps a second time, and you watch a metallic blue station wagon race past you. It catapults into the distance. You urge yourself desperately. _Quinn,_ you plead. It's the push you need. When the lights hit yellow, your foot finally comes loose and it slams the accelerator. Your back pummels the seat with force.

Again, you find yourself roaming through a highway that you probably shouldn't be on. It takes you far away; a lot of trees and not many buildings. You're thankful. No channel, or medium you thought possible could be so intuitively considerate. How could it know that if anything, a place deserted and directionless is a reality that you needed as of now? How could it know, that in isolation perhaps, ultimate freedom may be found? And, in deep irony, you suppose, better control may be gained? How did it know this profound introspection? How did it know you?

The sky, expanding as far as the eye can see, is an infinite entity meeting the horizon. Is less understanding in the wake of the sun. The glares in your eyes bear no gifts; especially resentful, the sky is, in sundown. Despite the poetry in colors, you see no prose in blindness. Most probably, the time to make a return trip has expired you then justify; the morning has already almost become night. How far is too far? You venture onto a two-way road. It's now you believe you know where you're going, but for a completely different reason than it had been years before. Cars, sparse and in-between cruise past you on the left, and the temperature noticeably spikes in the bitter place. You press the AC button, but it denies your request. Regretfully, you recall why Rachel didn't trade this car in. So you sweat in your seat, too restricted by fear to roll down the windows and panicky to do anything else. But it's when you see the red sign approaching before you, you feel like maybe you can't keep going. You feel as though you can't look, or rather, don't want to. The stop sign nears, and you're crawling, the car edging closer to that solid white line. _Stop,_ you caution yourself. _Stop!_ Your inner-voice orders you. You glance down at the pedals hesitatingly; your feet are hovering mid-air, alternating between the brake and the accelerator. Through a squint, you make sure the brake is in fact where it really is - not a mirage, a trick of the eyes. The car rolls forward and you don't know which is worse; that you've diverted your attention from the road or that the car is still in motion when it sure as hell shouldn't be. In this moment you make the split-second decision to not brake; enough seconds have passed for you to believe that's perhaps you're already into the intersection. When you feel no impact, you forcibly glance back upward to the dusty road. There are no cars in sight, no blasting horns or blinding headlights careering toward you. Just the immeasurably long road ahead that leads to a destination far, far out of sight. Your hands take to the wheel harder than they did before, almost like a short-winded response of gratitude and you grant yourself a reprieve - like fate has done so for you many times before.

Cautiously, you manoeuvre the car to the right; the steering no easier nor harder than you remember, with everything the same, what's foreign is blaringly obvious. You're not wrapped around a tree this time. No crushed car, or glass in places where it shouldn't be. You're in control, and pulling over to the side of the road. You will be stationery, not because some large object will counteract your velocity, but because you will have parked on volition of your own. The handbrake is pulled up and the engine killed. When the car shudders to a final stop and all that is left are your wheezy breaths penetrating the steam of the visibly stifling heat, you receive your first untroubled impulse of the day. As brief as a gunshot, your hand dashes into your handbag, fumbling for your phone. You pull away, stifling an uncalled for sob when you're finally able to actualize its presence. You did not once account for this longing. There's an array of short text messages titled with 'DON'T READ.' and 'PUT ME AWAY.' that bombard the screen but there's only one other with a message that evokes a different sort of response from you. Sent 14 minutes ago from Rachel. 'If you're not driving, call me.' It's enough to dial her number and listen.

Rachel picks up. She doesn't say anything remarkable or words at all, but her untold silence more than compensates.

"Rachel?" You ask. The voice in your throat trembles. It's a foreign road in the relationship the both of you are travelling down, and perhaps, you are more apprehensive of the two.

You register a whoosh through the phone. It's indeterminable as to whether the sound is a frantic Rachel rushing past a door so fast she falls through sound barriers or in fact, justifiably, has released an entirely overdue, gush of breath she has been holding. Either way, you're left, in a sense, lost.

"Quinn." The sound of her voice makes you melt. Truthfully. You're certain of this statement. "Where are you?"

You swallow. _Tell her the truth_. "I'm leaving the state." It's out before you can take it back. Footsteps reverberate through the phone and toward your ear, "Is it Quinn? You found her?" The phone discerns a different voice. You choose not to guess the identity of the intruder.

"You're not driving are you?" Rachel worries.

"No." You pause, sucking in, you're sure, only that of carbon dioxide and no other possible forms of much needed replenishment. "But I can't." _What? That doesn't make sense. "_ I wasn't thinking." You attempt to form coherent sentences. "I would never leave without-"

"Just text me your address." She hushes. Maybe she understands, the extent of your absolute incapacitation. "I'll get there, Quinn. Don't worry. " _I won't,_ you think, but you're not sure you trust that.

"Text me the address and don't move okay? Stay there. " She patiently awaits your confirmation. "Promise me you'll stay there." Rachel capitalizes on what's important.

There's more you would like to divulge. More you would like to fit into this conversation, perhaps an apology or two, or even the long story of how you almost ran a red light and most certainly did at a stop sign. That would also constitute giving out more apologies. _Why hadn't you've just stayed at the office?_

"I promise." You yield. The address you text her is delivered in record time all things considered and then there's a click, and Rachel's connection with you is severed.

…

She arrives when you're dreaming. Dreaming of a pink dress, a wedding and a crash. It's the same, temperamental vision. Like glass shards in your eyes, it's all very clear, but at the same time, jagged and broken. It's as though you're looking through a shattered mirror to an event, you muse. Which in turn, instills a pinch of curiosity. Just because you're on the other side, does that mean you are its reflection? Does that mean it is you? Does that mean this event, hypothetically, has in one way or another become you/shaped you? Then, if so, which part? Was it when you finally put on that pink dress for the first time? Or when you secretly anticipated the wedding of a close friend? Or when, the dashing utility truck totaled your car - changing you for better; for worse? If not for this event, would you be happy? Had you been happy? Where in this, was your life set on a different path? The mildly disturbing controversy, you believe is what wakes you.

This is reconsidered, of course, the moment you capture sight of your wife at your window. She appears desperate, and mournfully looking down at your thoroughly drenched summer dress, you know why. "Quinn!" She knocks. She sounds strangely muffled. You roll down the window. You're met with the most unbelievable force of wind you ever thought possible, and involuntarily your body leans toward it. Apparently, it has been desperate for fresh air. Rachel doesn't catch on to your amusement, however, and sticks her head through the opening.

"Open the door." She commands. Feeling a little tipsy, you choose to obey. As soon as it swings open, Rachel unchecks your seatbelt and pushes you forward in your seat. She thrusts your head toward your knees, there's a rush of blood that makes your head throb and everything miraculously grow to be more concrete. Your irate breathing also slows.

"Quinn." You see her force her lips together through a steeply upward glance.

"Uh huh."

"Feel better?" She changes line of approach because this is much kinder than what her expression had been.

"Yes." You say, and she nods; unfolding her arms to help you out of your seat. The gesture, on a subconscious level, hurts your feelings.

"I don't need your help." You slap away at Rachel's wrist. She steps back and you lift yourself out of the driver's seat. Without a hitch. She watches you closely as you approach the other side of the car and then her eyes noticeably widen when you reach for the front passenger door.

"What?" You demand, unabashedly self-conscious. _You will be able enough to sit in the front._ "I got this far didn't I?" You can't scratch away the indignation in your tone.

Rachel surrenders, sliding herself into the car seat behind the wheel. "I'm not going to discount anything you managed to do today." You follow suit, only because you don't feel like protesting across a car.

"Don't patronize me." You tell her weakly, forcing the seatbelt on. Rachel grimaces. "I'm trying my best to help you, Quinn." She defends. You judge her, not for what she says but for what she means. It propels you into a frustration-fueled silence, you're angry with no one but yourself. _Why can't you just play nice for once?_ She brings the car to a start and faintly, you feel the cool breath of anxiety behind you, running its way down your back.

Rachel pays no recognition to your dissatisfied expression, with her driving being her only source of concentration. The digital clock reads 6:30 and your stomach somersaults. "My pills." Rachel ducks her head to check the clock. There's a part of you that's certain Rachel doesn't understand why you're ever so eager to stick to Dr Beckwith's regimen. Neither do you.

"Did you bring them?" You ask. Her eyebrows furrow.

"I thought they could wait." Rachel turns on the headlights. She stares vexingly at the road ahead.

"I'm supposed to take them now." The sky is a dark and luminous grey as she veers onto the highway. It menaces the car with promise of a storm.

"I am aware of that, Quinn." Rachel's voice squeaks. "But this happened, didn't it? Obviously, it changes things."

She taps the steering wheel, like she is scolding a child. "You think they should up my dosage." You accuse. There is nothing to lead you toward this sentiment. _You're so petty, Quinn_. Rachel narrows her eyes.

"No, I don't think that." She shakes her head. "I didn't s-"

"You think I'm fine then." You gauge. Another angle on the situation, you jump to with a degree of irrationality and despicableness.

"No." Rachel lashes. She flicks her head to meet your eyes only briefly, before returning her attention to the road. Her expression is unnerving, and you feel responsible. As responsible as you're father had been over you, all those years ago. Perhaps, Rachel is wary of this too.

"You're fine somedays Quinn, and others, you're not." It is a pity gesture, you don't take very well. "You think I should be put in a facility-"

"Quinn!" Rachel curses, aghast. You stop because she has never assumed that tone before. Then, you feel the guilt and self-hatred that results from conspiring such outrageous claims on your wife no less. "Quinn." She says, much softer. Calmer. She inhales slowly.

"Have you tried sifting through these accusations yourself? They're not very nice, and I don't think you really mean any of them. You're upset."

"I'm sorry." You apologize intuitively. You're not sure where this comes from because you never sizzle down this quick. Rachel swallows. She's skeptic too.

However, you genuinely feel contrite. "I'm sorry I took the car, and drove it away like a madwoman." Rachel's eyes flicker toward you. Introspective and slightly dubious. "I'm sorry for maybe breaking some road rules and-"

"I don't want to know." Rachel shuts down with a wave of a hand. Any attempt to bargain some penance is made absolutely futile. "Not now." You turn away, accepting the kind hand of rejection. The side window proves a worthy companion, just for the fact that it is wholly transparent, and it occupies the time it takes for the next point of conversation to arise.

You speak your mind again, much later. This time it begins rehearsed. "We can have a baby." Rachel doesn't say anything. "I can do that if it's what you want."

"Quinn." She whispers. You strain to hear her over the traffic.

"I want a family too." You tell her, and try not to think about Beth. You try not to think that no matter how many babies you have, it could never erase the fact that you had already given a part of your family away. You try not to think of the shame.

"That's not what you said to me." She reminds.

"That doesn't make it any less true."

"That doesn't make you any more ready for it either." Rachel rebuts.

"I'm going to get better. I'll get over it." She regards you doubtfully at that; perhaps your sudden change in heart isn't as convincing as you like. "I'm only going to delay the inevitable. It might as well happen now."

"Don't undervalue what you mean to me Quinn." Rachel pulls into a familiar street; you both are almost thankfully home. "I can wait." You both remain silent as Rachel parks the car and cuts the engine.

"It's just logical." You justify. Rachel doesn't take to it.

"And it will be stupid if you're not ready." She lifts her chin, her seatbelt withdraws as she swivels her body to face you. You ignore any arousing thoughts evoked from this observation.

"Being ready is overrated." You inform her nonchalantly. "I was never ready for Beth."

Rachel blanches. Although, quickly recovers. You sense her determination. "But you will be." She presses. You're not sure you follow. It's a first - that maybe you welcome the notion of being a fool for once. "There will be a day when you're ready." She says in a tone that asserts her certainty. "When you won't feel responsible for the choices you made understandably as a child, and be able to accept the gift that Beth is. When self-punishment gets old and maybe a little of self-compassion gets in."

Again, she leads you to a place deeply removed from any other, of which you'd never expect to encounter. A glimpse into the future, perhaps, you weren't sure possible.

"I'm waiting for the day, Quinn, you'll just love yourself the way I do. Maybe, it's too much to ask." She throws up her hands with heavy expression. "But if there's anything in this world I want, it's for you to see yourself through my eyes." Most days, this would be the sort of sweet talk you'd prefer to avoid, since, it often meant facing some sort of truth. Contrarily though, you find a little courage in today that maybe you think you can brave a confrontation. "You're perfect, Quinn. Maybe, you spend most of your days outwardly convincing your colleagues and friends of your self-assuredness, but I know-" She chokes, somewhat atypical to her nature. "But I know, the conflict that's there." Her hand falls over her heart, where you presume, it hurts. "You always unfairly believe you're not good enough. You are Quinn. You are." She speaks as though she has never been more honest.

"Rachel-"

"You really are."

"If this is a competition of affections-"

"Your parents won't say it, but I'm not afraid to." Her blatant disregard for your appeal to change the subject is slightly less disparaging than bringing up your parents. She rounds this though, with a sweet, dolce voice and an appropriate statement, "I'm glad you're here."

There's a tiny, almost-to-be missed tenderness that she summons to her expression, something you strongly believe, only God could have had the capacity to bestow.

If he is in it, you are also. "Me too." You allow.

Her mouth twitches. "You know what this means?" Her foresight comes from a rare, unexplained place.

"You're not alone, Quinn." She tells. The prospect jumps you unprepared. "If you care enough," Rachel carefully conditions, "life is better with you in it."

Her words are swallowed into a meaningful silence, and you glance out the window toward your house. Jane, Rachel's agent stands at the front door. Her hands are on her hips, a frown overwhelming her face. For a second you believe she is Judy, your mother.

"I have something to tell you." Rachel adds to your scrutiny.

"How did you meet me in the middle of nowhere?" You ask, because in truth the question has been bothering you for a while now.

"I had Dr Beckwith drop me off." You nod, not breaking attention with Rachel's agent. "Though, she took me to the house first -didn't trust me to drive. I thought you'd be there" She explains, lowering her eyes toward you. _That makes sense._

Jane approaches the vehicle diffidently. "Why is she here?" You stiffen, as though you have come across something exceptionally pungent.

Rachel doesn't answer. She smiles sympathetically. "It's going to be okay, Quinn." She rests her hand on yours. You embrace the comfort; unsure of her conviction. Is it still even achievable to make amends - after all that has happened? After today? How far is too far, you think, to be able to turn back?

...

Author's Note: What did you guys think? There are a lot of plot points hinted at in this chapter which will be covered in the future instalments i.e. Quinn's parents, her past, Beth e.t.c. Don't be fooled though, there will be plenty of upheaval for Rachel too. Kurt and Santana will be making a presence, I hope, very soon as well. So don't go anywhere!

I'd love to see all your thoughts on this, so don't refrain from commenting.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Previously,

-Quinn overcomes a bout of pneumonia (insight into her accident)

-Santana visits briefly

-Quinn suffers anxiety attacks in cars (unsure of the trigger)

-Phone calls from Jane (R's agent) and Shelby (also Beth)

-Rachel convinces Quinn to see Dr Beckwith (Q's psychiatrist), in which Quinn delivers on her promise to make a confession.

-Quinn tells Rachel she isn't ready for another child, which, Rachel has been longing for a very long time.

-Rachel is heartbroken and Quinn is left to her own as she takes the car for a drive. Q is reckless and troublesome.

-Rachel and Quinn reunite, driving home to see Jane there.

-Rachel decides to finally tell Quinn about her new role, plus the complications that arise from that.

…

Rachel P.O.V

Quinn is distraught; the fiery ember of her eyes flickering behind a veil of well-practised valour. Your hands are wet on top of hers; the sweat there applies a gentle lubricant layer between the two entities. Perhaps, you're a little a nervous. As purely incidental as Quinn's outburst had been, Jane's decision - unbeknownst to her - to pay a visit on the same day with intentions of establishing your position on future job matters, which has been up to this point, non-existent - is nothing short of malicious. The disposal of valuable time in attempt to ward Jane away thereafter became fruitless. She took the liberty to dump a convincing case on your rather unforgiving and self-inspecting ass, maintaining that there is, if not more reason now than ever, to inform Quinn of your probable plans. You would know, after all, the pain that is caused in withholding a truth. She took the liberty also, to discredit her unannounced arrival today since there were still really, a few more days to make a decision. None of this inevitable talk however, should bother you, except for the fact; your relationship is on the line. You worry that Quinn will selflessly tell you to go ahead and pursue the opportunity. To search every avenue, every reef, and keeping looking until you find what it is that will feed the hungry, relentless Broadway beast inside of you. It is your dream, she'll justify. _' I can't be the one to stand in front of your dreams.'_ She had said that once before hadn't she? There's no reason she won't refrain from saying it again.

You recall the day when you both had made the time-appropriate call to temporarily move to Boston. There seemed to be some sensibility in that; it would be close enough to New York that you could travel back and forth to see her between performances or vice versa, and Quinn could still continue her studies part-time at Boston university until she manages her degree. This settlement perpetually came back to haunt. Now, if you do accept, there is little chance you'll see Quinn, with your focus and job in New York requiring most or all of your time. The dilemma has recognized a part of you willing, just because of the sake of that, to give up your non-conformist childhood love in exchange for a different kind. All you had ever known were your dreams of Broadway and the passion that resulted, but since Quinn you've felt what it's truly like to be impassioned, to be subject to an oppression. An oppression caused by an emotion too devouring. Too influential. Flanked by needless desires to touch her, feel her, breathe her. This undying love, not beneath any act, any dream, strong enough to overpower your preempted destiny has birthed a new, unidentifiable thirst for life. Which, as it happens, disregards anything that came before. Your heart only longs for one purpose first and foremost. Quinn. She's the only existence imperative, and relational, to your being you believe. Your love of Broadway can wither into nothing but a passable hope, but for as long as she is there, you can stand to hope again.

Quinn heaves the car door open, with a grunt; her bare legs dangling off the ground as she pivots in her seat. Reproachfully, Jane darts backward as the door swings a little wide, but she's too slow to dodge the soft thump of contact to her upper thigh.

"Jane." Quinn flashes a perfectly measured smile. It's hard to believe; only moments ago she had been fighting an anxiety-surged panic attack. That's the thing, she's too convincing.

Jane recovers, brushing her jeans off with utmost disdain. Her lips are thinned into a monumental scowl, as Quinn parades around the offending car door to extend her hand. Jane takes it with none too flattering sportsmanship. They shake for a while. Perhaps too long, but Quinn is only focused on the social exchange more than anything. Her eyes cast down at Jane's outfit.

"Hi Quinn. I'm glad you're okay." It's left embarrassingly discarded. Quinn straightens her back, inverts her shoulders and dashes the shaken hand behind her. She dazzles with a striking pose of feminine charm.

"If I had known you were coming, I wouldn't have bothered fleeing the state." Quinn says, ruffling her sun-kissed blonde hair; they fall glamorously across her finely cut jaw. It is, without effort, that they emphasize the vast difference in her hair quality with Jane's. Quinn's is vibrant, thick and thin, curled but loose. Jane's though, not to say it were lifeless, lacks any flexibility – demonstrating only predictability.

Jane uncomfortably shuffles her feet, skirting a pleading look toward you. Quinn however, flourishes in her self-imposed confidence.

"Rachel's career is very important to me, and especially, whoever it is that oversees it." She beams; you believe you see the stars that tinkle out of her eyes as though tears of joy, when she regards your work. It's as stunning as her veneer could ever be. "It's always a pleasure meeting you Jane." Her chin dips, that childish suppressed smile biting through her lower lip.

Jane nods robotically at Quinn's rather torridly gracious welcome and it's in a way that is astonishingly timid. Quinn has a means of intimidating that you don't think can ever be shaken, not even her blackish past possesses that ability. It's inherent, you suppose.

Quinn shrugs offhandedly; she speaks kindly but doesn't seem it. "I would offer you invitation into our house, but I don't think Rachel would be so keen on that. She's always very particular about –"

You clear your throat enough that Quinn twirls around to catch your approach. Her expression threatens closure, but her act is never undermined.

"That's okay Quinn. I've steam-cleaned the house already." You notify, a little unhelpfully.

"Oh." Quinn stumbles, genuine surprise on her face. It looks as though her body stumbles too; something about her image becomes off-kilter. Jane is surprised as well, her eyebrows pulled so high up her forehead they almost become one with her hairline.

"This is rare." Quinn blurts, glancing between Jane and you reluctantly. Tentatively you attempt to side your body against Quinn's in a way that would be reassuring, but Quinn springs away. Her body edging into a figurative corner, where neither Jane nor you, at first glance, can reach her. You find that you're unable to mask the hurt that permeates your features.

"I just thought," Quinn turns to you from a distance, her hazel-green eyes aflame. "-that if we were going to discuss something important it would be in private."

"It will be in private Quinn." You maintain. Her round eyes narrow disbelievingly. "Jane's here because, if we make a decision, I'll be able to inform her straight away."

"Decision." Quinn echoes. "Straight away." Her voice is hushed by an ill-managed breath.

"Yes." You lick your lips; they're suddenly as dry as your conviction. "This is exactly what we're going to talk about. Jane's going to wait in the kitchen, and we can go into my office and discuss this. In private."

Quinn momentarily halts responding to anything you say; there's nothing in her expression to show that she has any desire of letting you know what it is she's now thinking.

"Or Jane can just wait in her car. It's up to you." When you say this, Quinn ferries her attention to the house and with no warning, breaks into a brisk walk toward it. Your face flushes only briefly to reveal your inner-turmoil, and you wish you weren't so obvious, and more unreadable like Quinn.

"Is that a sign for please wait in your car?" Jane strokes the protruding keys in her jean pocket. An uncanny feeling creeps up on you. You tell to her what you know.

"Normally, it means you do whatever you want and I'll do what I want kind of thing. Unfortunately, I'm just going to suggest you wait in the car. And it's to save you the trouble of any harsh judgments she makes on your character based on a mindless decision to come inside."

Jane steels her posture, as she takes out her car keys. They cling ghoulishly. "Okay." She shrugs, nodding her head at her Lexus. "I'll be in there when you… both come to."

She starts her journey to her car before there's anything you can say to demonstrate your appreciation, and you take it, gratefully as a form of mutual respect. If there's anything you'd like to clarify with yourself, it is that Jane is better than any of them. Better than the rest of the alternatives. Others have recommended, stooping as low as, to even leaving Quinn for all the trouble she is. Jane on the other hand, has never crossed this line. For as long as this is true, she won't be banished from your sight.

You shut the front door quietly behind you and trail the silence to the living room. It doesn't take very long to find her. Quinn is promiscuously laid out across the front couch like a throw, and much like the comparison should, enlivens the dreary place. Except, this is not purely decorative as it is somewhat tasteful; she purports an unquantifiable charge of hysteria. It lies within a quivering raised brow. You watch it linger. Unsteady.

"Did she disapprove of my hospitality?" Quinn ventures a well-informed guess.

"Quinn." You gently chastise. She reverts her gaze to the wooden floor, taking in a rather deep breath that you see her chest raise.

"I'm sorry." She shifts on the couch, grimacing as she grapples at her feet so that she is sitting on her side. "There's something that needs to be said, and I've made myself ready." She offers you her full attention with a wide-eyed look.

You nod, accepting the vacated room beside Quinn. She leans forward onto your shoulder close enough that her hair tickles your face. It's an apology in its most unsaid form.

"I think too much." You justify. "That's the problem." Quinn flicks her head back with a poorly repressed groan. It startles you enough into an open-mouthed gape, an unfortunate habit you would wish disappear given the chance.

Sagely, Quinn corrects. "You talk too much." She tugs at your sweater that you sway back and forth. "Come on tell me what it is."

You remove yourself from the need to justify any potential shortcomings in the matter and break enough protections put in place just so you can jump to the truth.

"I've been offered a new role." You reveal. Quinn clasps her hands together, lifting her head up skyward whilst shutting her eyes. She looks to be sniffing the air. Her slender nostrils twinge as though she has discovered something particularly nice. You watch with a retractable uncertainty.

Her face scrunches. "I knew it!" She proclaims, shaking her head, her medium length curls orbiting her pink face. "God, I knew it!"

"Knew what?" Your head spins.

"Why couldn't you have just told me earlier? It's fine, Rachel. It's not like this is the first time-"

"No." You interrupt, flustering. She doesn't understand. Quinn puffs some air, that it blows the stray blonde hair from her face.

"It's oka-" She tries, but you shake your head at Quinn's soon-to-be unnecessary attempts of consolations. You only see the imminent retribution of when she knows the whole outcome.

"Except, I won't be able to visit you." The reason for your hesitancy is shaken, bared.

"Oh." Quinn manages. You struggle to nod your head at Quinn's noticeable loss for words. She leans back away from you and slumps on the couch. Her hands fidget distractingly on her lap as she ostensibly ponders. It's almost seems as though she is being awaken from a nightmare only to find that it is a memory. The shock is undeniable, more so than her stillness.

"You should do it." She paints a thorough picture of her view and you feel your body cave in on itself. You rub your face with your hands viciously, dangerously, swinging your body back and forth on the bank of despair's raging current.

"No." Your tone threatens to challenge. She instantly blushes, her cheeks reddening. "You don't get to take the easy way out." You tell her.

"And neither do you." Quinn is quick to jump back, red-faced. You feel a competition coming on, but Quinn, as quickly as she is riled up, softens her tensed look. "This could be good. A break, I mean." She amends.

"Break?" You repeat as if to scoff. "No Quinn." You wave the prospect away. "We don't do breaks."

"And maybe that's why we should." The bidden farewell prospect comes floating back.

"Should?" The room's acoustic clings to the last word. "But this is working Quinn. Our relationship is working." Quinn turns away at that, confronted with its actual merit.

"I'm not saying that it isn't." Quinn defies after much thought. "But it could be working better."

"Oh Quinn!" You wince, and perhaps more than anything, it's Quinn's uncalled for calmness that causes this. "How is being apart going to help that?"

"I think we need to grow on our own for a little." She nods slowly. "Allow ourselves to mature a bit, to know what we want, don't want. What we're ready for, or not ready for."

No, no, no, no. No. It is the cool, impartial and entirely logical Quinn you're facing with now and in this regard, you can't win.

"I can quit my job and finally finish off my semester at Uni. I'm okay now, Rachel." You stare rudely, flabbergasted. "I'm not…not in that place anymore, I promise." She says.

The dark spots you see menace your vision. The air is made very scarce by your chest's reluctance to rise.

"Rachel?" Something flickers across Quinn's eyes.

Your breath implodes from your mouth. "This is ridiculous." You accuse. "I'm not going. There's nothing to discuss. There never was anything to discuss."

Quinn glowers. "Yes, there was. This has been your dream since day one, Rachel. If this role is as important as Jane's presence here suggests, you will take it."

"No." You have to force it from your mouth. "No." You repeat, as though it's not clear, your position on the matter.

"I cannot be that person, Rachel." Quinn argues. "I will not be the person to stop you from pursuing this role. I forewarned you about marrying Finn all those years ago for that very reason and god forbid I become that kind of hypocrite."

"Then renounce what you said." You plead her.

"No."

"Quinn. Please."

"No!" She shouts. She bats her eyelashes frustratingly. Your head shakes a distinct no with a volition of its own. "I won't because it's the reason why Finn didn't marry you. Don't you get it? It's the reason I'm here. We're here." Quinn's breathing staggers.

"I won't ever take that back, Rachel." She calms a little. "I won't ever take us back. It's the one thing you can't make me do."

You're silent.

"Having a break will be like taking us back."

"No, I'll still be here. We can video chat every day."

Everything in the room slumps, you imagine a purely surrealist painting, melted clocks and the slipping sky stretching for miles. You imagine Salvador Dali's inspiration behind it. This is the extent of influence Quinn has over your world, and it is terrifying. "That's not that the same thing."

"Rachel."

"No. No. No." You growl, aggression relentlessly pouring out of you. "No, I will not lose you again."

"Lose me?" She gasps. Her expression severely disturbed. "Lose me to what?"

You're forced into a silence.

"My dreams mean nothing without you Quinn. I can't-"

Quinn's hand slips onto yours. You're surprised to see there are tears in her eyes, and maybe, she's feeling a lot more than she lets on.

"Where are we?" She asks. Her voice sends chills down your spine. Makes the hair on your neck prick. Makes your whole body tingle.

"Home." You answer.

"Now how can I part with that forever?"

You shiver. The sentiment touches you. "H-how can you be so certain when-?"

"Rachel, I know." She nods. "I know that there's no place like home. "

Her voice is as fine as hair. "I've been to heaven… to hell and everything between. I've resorted to made up worlds to run away from other ones, I've tried different ways of living and not living. Had my taste of ecstasies and poisons - and if I have learnt anything, Rachel - it is, as long as I have you, I can know where I belong."

"You have to trust me." Her voice grows tremulous. She grips your hand tight until they turn white to purple "-that I won't forget my home."

…

When night dare lay a finger over the guilt-ridden day, the darkness enveloping even the night light that swoons from your window, you murmur into her ear, undeterred by the fact that she may be sleeping. "I won't let you forget, if it's the last thing I do." You must remind yourself of this vow.

In the morning you awake with her arm pleasantly wrapped around your waist, and her face propped up on your belly. She breathes softly, surely; the pressure on her cheek from her contact with your middle, parts her mouth open where you feel the occasional quiet whisper of air. She practices a degree of vulnerability and strength - with her other arm tangled underneath your back and her moving chest against your side - and in this moment of gazing over your wife's slumbering body, you don't believe the heralding scars that besmirch it.

…

"Quinn. Quinn."

"Hey."

There's an unbecoming groan that scuttles along the hair of you skin. It tickles your belly, but you don't laugh in case of jarring Quinn's head with you're racking hysterics.

"It's morning." Quinn cracks open an eye, blinking lazily through a profound haze of sleep.

"That's an arbitrary observation." Quinn mumbles into your stomach. Her breath is swelteringly hot.

"You feel a little warm Quinn."

"Sleeping with you makes me hot." She replies smugly. You reach down to touch her face, but immediately, as though a reflex, she buries it away into your abdomen.

"Hey." You squeak. A laugh threatens to break free at the contact. Quinn stops only to say defensively "Let me sleep."

Unfortunately it is a demand you cannot grant. "It's 10 'clock, Quinn." She huffs, the blow of air sweeping you body with a delightful sensation. You're self-discipline is impressive.

"I have to go to the studio. Somehow, manage a song for the audition." At this, Quinn withdraws from her position on top of your belly. She hisses as she pulls her right arm free from underneath you, wincing at the cool touch of your hand.

"You're cold."

"You stole the blanket." Quinn cringes, slowly lifting her arm.

"It's numb." She blanches. You release a sigh, massaging her arm in attempt to restart its circulation.

"One day you'll lose it, Quinn." You say to her like always. "As much as I'd love to give you mine if that's the case, it'll leave you with disproportionate arm lengths." Quinn peeks up at you through her eyelashes, somehow further fallen down into the middle of bed. Her arm that you massage is now raised far above her. She twists it, wiggling her fingers with a smile of wonderment on her face.

"I think I have gained some feeling."

"You shouldn't be so amused, Quinn. It's not good for your arm and nor my back." You dutifully inform her. Quinn's jaw drops into a silent laugh, turning her head away. The reaction warms your cold body.

"I'm showering." You tell her, dropping her massaged arm down carefully beside her, of which, Quinn reclaims gratefully.

"How long until you have to go." She asks, as you pull yourself up. Your bare feet are already pressed down onto the carpeted floor.

"Until the end of this week." The bed squeaks suddenly, and you hear the soft thumping of Quinn's approach. Her hand touches you lightly on the back. The distance that is there is almost tangible.

"We should go out." She says. "Go to our favorite restaurant. Have fun."

You don't turn around to face her, but allow yourself this moment. "Yeah."

As suddenly as you had felt it, Quinn's hand is gone from your back. Reluctantly, you bend down to gather your slippers, hearing Quinn's soft retreat.

"I just can't do Friday." She says after a while. Your fingers are buttoning up your blouse, and your leather skirt is on backwards. Peering through the mirror in front, you can see Quinn watching you. Her blonde hair parted in all directions, unruly waves and flattened curls in just the right places.

"I'm babysitting Beth on Friday." Quinn reasons, tugging at her pajama top.

"That's good." You say to her. Truthfully, you're not surprised, but instead relieved. This has been something you've been looking forward to Quinn partaking in. Some sort of reconciliation, that is, for Quinn's past.

She pitches forward over the bed at your response, as though to tumble out of it, but reemerges seconds later, her face reddened with the blood rush.

"I found it." She exclaims. You spin around a little apprehensively to inspect the object that Quinn brandishes in her hand.

A ring lay in it, an emerald gemstone situated in the middle of the band. It wasn't her wedding ring, of course, but in fact a family token passed through generations in the Fabray family. It had been lost a few weeks ago, but now, to your amazement, turns up here in the bedroom of all places.

"How did we not see it?" You ask, knowing how precious the ring is to Quinn, you had searched the house through and through for it.

"It was stuck between the bedframe and mattress." Quinn explains, and she too you see, is in utter astonishment at the piece of jewelry. Not that it had ever been a sign of good things, but perhaps now, it has the potential to represent something different.

"I know the perfect place…" Quinn mutters.

…

 _"_ _Redefining the past is the best way to overcoming the present. The future is its hope."_


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Author's Note (I recommend you read this):

 _This is a Faberry fanfic. A few good points are being made in reviews and most are addressed in this chapter. I didn't want to be too rushed into revealing all the reasons for the decisions being made (in the previous chapter), as some of which, play an important role in this narrative, and would undermine the concept of suspense/mystery. But I do try to ensure that everything I elect to write or don't write is purposeful and meaningful to the progression of the story. Either way, you'll see what I mean when you read the chapter._

 _Also, there are some concerns in relation to the toxicity of Quinn and Rachel's relationship. Understandably, they each have their issues- Quinn's being at the forefront thus far. But as for the direct affect it has on the both of them and their future together, in all honesty, I'm not quite sure. Whatever it is, I'm attempting to convey it in the most realistic/organic manner possible, which means, ensuring they concur with their personalities as well. But I appreciate the concern, because, I'm a little anxious too. How many obstacles can a couple face before their relationship is irreparable? Hopefully? An infinite amount. But it may not be the case. We'll just have to remind ourselves that- in writing a story of self-discovery; there will be revelations that the readers experience, but also, invariably the exact identical revelations having to be experienced by the author first._

 _Just so you know, I have my fingers crossed the story arrives at the conclusion we all hope for, that is, Faberry will inevitably come though._

 _Thank you for all the reviews! I cannot express how important they are to my writing! - Unless of course, I have already done so above._

...

Quinn's P.O.V

A stray torrent of wind barrages your face. Your body so chilled it cures any external feelings that linger. The road in front of you is limited - but your imagined path, infinite, extends outwardly for miles. For this reason, you believe you can run for eternity. The spin of the planet has stilled and the vertigo you would experience thereafter, silences. There are no earth-shattering tremors to tip you off balance here, no collapsing buildings or bridges to impede your sullen progress across things. There are no disillusioned capacities obstructing your loosely construed views. Contrastingly, amongst all these non-offerings, the grandest gesture is time itself - bearing no relevance in this adrenaline-inspired sprint.

It takes you places, your feet. Since a child, they have been the means to a freedom, independence and an autonomy you could only hope for. They were the measures of your success in every sense of the word. Your feet, having led you into dancing, athletics, and cheering, and the trophies that resulted, to now, when those things are no longer as present as they once were, work to institute a place of reverence. A deep, blissful, understanding of oneself - to bare the passage to the core so that you may see yourself. These shy moments, fleeting and perpetually evasive, are the clarity your life so often seeks. In the same way that Rachel has her singing, your feet are the source of your most prized release. And of which, lead you here, standing at the crossroads of yet another suburb - these two marvelous extensions of the body, side by side, arrive at a stop.

It's a miracle your knees don't quake, or that they even just give out completely. Maybe, it will hit you later with a sudden gust of strong wind, bearing a potential, you're sure, to blow you off your feet. Like a highly effective predator probably, it will exercise patience, but you're not a person to sit around and wait. The second you swivel around to face the other way, your feet are kicking up a whole other storm of dirt in its wake.

The house is soundless upon your return, not that you had expected anyone to be there. Rachel is working on her audition, and although this level of separation hurts, it's where you prefer her to be given the circumstances. You leave your muddied sneakers at the door and pull yourself up the stairs. A cool bath to soothe your already aching muscles sounds more than adequate, and is entirely routine. Still, you're properly surprised at the burn of the freezing water rushing over your skin. Reaching out at the sides of bathtub in a death-like grip, is the length you take to prevent launching yourself from out of the tub. With gritted teeth, you endure the wash of ice inundating your body. Your voice hums during, circulating the room as though it were the buzzing of a bee, but its bittersweet in its ability to narrate your beating heart. Everything slows, the bath taking its time to turn your skin blue and a little longer to numb the ache of your body.

In a sudden burst of energy you propel yourself up, doing a wild dance-like leap out of the tub and onto, thankfully, a well-placed mat. As soon as you've found your footing, your hand nimbly twists the knob of the tap on the bathtub's edge to sever the water supply, and you unplug the drain. An insurmountable wave of uncontrollable shivers overcome you, and justifiably, you don't stick around to watch the water be washed down. Snatching the towel off the rack, and gathering your clothes from the stand nearby, you race to the hearth in the living room.

The curtains are drawn as usual, and the fire there is appreciatively still burning. In the warmth of the generated heat, you dry yourself quickly, the red flame flickering bright shadows over the white tiles. It's a little beautiful this house actually, you muse, staring at the lavish walls and its print. Although, such nice things have never been a luxury for you - the Fabray house, your birthright, was if not more exceptional. A chandelier at every lifted ceiling, 10 feet doorways and looming entryways symbolizing every passage, you imagined it used to house giants. The staircase, spiraling endlessly upward under the gaze of a golden painted ceiling, was in that regard too, without a doubt, one of the Fabray's house many greatest assets. But in your eyes, the staircase was only to be an instrument of Fabray law. How many times had you fallen, not on your own accord, and the non-carpeted stone-like marble dared been there to catch your fall? How often had it been the place of time out, and several spankings? A place of which, punishment was to be enforced and occasionally, executed. You recall, in the rare event, of spending hours that lapsed into a day, slumping over the steps and waiting for your father's return to deal out your sentence. It was an incredibly serious predicament to be in, no member was spared its licensed wrath, not even your mother who had spent three days tied to the bannister no less. You're certain too, when your grandfather had still owned the household, your father had spent his time there also. Where else could such creative wickedness be so deeply instilled, without the consent of generations of course?

Wrapped in a thick leather coat, and underneath the longest dress you could find – your dancer legs model Rachel's knitted knee-high socks, which, just seem to end at your shins. There's a little pang that travels down your back when you eventually bend down to fit on a pair of heels. It's ignorable enough that you manage to perform a brisk walk into the kitchen for your wallet and phone soon afterward. In one final check of the living room, to ascertain everything had been put away since getting changed and your towel wasn't in fact still slung across the sofa, you slip past the front door in a hurry.

The cab is already waiting for you on the opposite side of the road, and you traipse toward it. Your footsteps are loud in the dead of night, echoing through the dense neighborhood as your approach the stationary Sudan. Picking up your long dress, you attempt to open the car door, but your phone ducks out from your reach. Reflexively, you throw your body against the side of the car to catch it at your belly, but the phone teeters haphazardly towards the ground below. The car creaks and the driver exits the vehicle. He edges around the car as you finally manage to grab your phone. He doesn't question why you choose to sit in the back instead of the front; wordlessly opening the door you intended.

"Thank you." He shrugs, and it occurs to you during an abrupt assessment, that he may not be a native English speaker as you would have presumed. He waits for you to settle before closing the door after you. The seat is harder than you expect and the belt, for a frightening second, is nowhere to be seen.

He hunkers down behind the wheel; the car dipping lower toward the ground with his weight and you can't take your eyes away from his scraggly beard. You're somewhat quite fond. Surprisingly, he reminds you of Joe from McKinley, but much rounder. His dark, wildly unkempt hair, though short up top and allowed to grow from the chin, makes the Jesus lookalike seem a little older and mature. It puts an involuntary wistful smile on your face, the likes of which the driver acknowledges with a polite nod. You would never confess, but you miss the friendship that had transpired back then in your senior year. Joe was perhaps, one of the only men that had ever really shown a deep level of respect for your dignity and religion, unlike those before him. That kind of sensitivity, more importantly, almost didn't exist in yourself.

"Ms Berry-Fabray." He addresses in a tone that is monotonous and dry.

"Please, it's Lucy." You correct. He dips his head in a sign of affirmation.

"Your destination is 'The Hawthorne'?" His voice is surprisingly very deep, and accented.

"Yes." You don't hear him turn the engine on, but the radio memorably commences a robust melody and the car swerves around suddenly. You watch the lights pass you by in a blur, wondering at what splash of color you would end up stopping at.

…

Santana is waiting at the curb, and as though Russian roulette, the cab slows to a grinding halt in front of a red-lighted building. A little car sick, you burst out of the vehicle toward the pavement. Your friend isn't afraid to stare as you keel over to dry heave, your hand gripping the car door for support. Nothing substantial comes out, and you straighten yourself, hearing a click in your back as you do so.

"Are you okay?" A voice asks from behind. The cab driver stands a bit too close for comfort, but you think nothing of it. "Was it my driving?" He asks.

"No. No." You repeat. A bitter thought passes though your mind; it's a lie of course. _No, I'm just pregnant._

"Just thank you." Unzipping your wallet, your hand shakily conveys the cash owing. He takes it, clasping his hands over your trembling one to steady it.

"I'll try drive slower, if I do see you again." He offers sympathetically.

"Nice try, pervert." Santana bites. He lets go immediately, spooked by her apparent association with you.

He steps back, but pauses apprehensively to defend himself. "I wasn't trying anything." Santana's eyes narrow skeptically.

"What's your name, grandpa?" The lines between his eyebrows deepen.

"Santana." You interrupt. She grabs you away from him, gripping you close toward her.

He glances at the sight briefly. Then, "Antonio." He mutters.

"Well listen up Mario." She nips snidely. "You won't be seeing her again. I'll be the one to drive her home, thank you very much." Santana tugs at your coat, and suddenly you're being pulled away.

When Santana shoves you roughly onto the lounge seat of the chosen bar that your teeth chatter, you can't help but feel a bit mad.

"Hey." Your voice splinters.

"Hey yourself." Santana drawls. "You should be more careful." The waitress arrives at your table, and at one glance of your friend's death-like stare, she quickly moves on to another guest.

"That wasn't necessary." You say. She waves the sentiment off indignantly as she takes out her phone and slides it across the table.

"What?"

She shrugs. "Check my caller history."

"Just tell me what it is." You push her phone away from you. A few people busy themselves around the table and you shake off your coat. It collapses behind your back.

She bites her lip uncharacteristically, before saying, "Rachel called me."

"Tells me she's going to New York and you're staying here." You don't say anything. Santana frowns speculatively.

"You know there's no way she's just going to let me leave and go with her." You disclose in between Santana's mute shots in the dark.

"You don't know that." She says sharply.

"Yes, I do." You maintain. "Beth is here, and she knows how important that girl is to me. She knows that I can't just up and leave at a moment's notice, especially when Beth was the reason I transferred out of Yale and came here in the first place."

"But there's a difference now, Quinn." Santana licks her lips, leaning forward to smoothen her tone. "Beth isn't ill anymore."

You scoff. "It can still come back." The very prospect of that happening though, is like letting a live canon loose inside of your chest.

"You can't just live your life here in constant fear of it coming back." She quips, her soft black hair, you notice, is tinged with brown highlights that shine in the bar's lighting. It reminds you of the subtle but significant impact that Beth has had on you.

"I owe Beth my life." You tell her despondently.

"And what about Rachel?" She hammers. "Don't you think you owe her something? She is your wife, after all." Your heart skips a beat.

"I'm not going to stay here forever, Santana." Your mind reels for a viable explanation. "When we're ready, we'll move permanently to New York."

"It sounds nice when you put it like that, Q. But, when **are** you going to be ready?" She contests. "Are you just going to stay here until there's finally a cure for cancer?"

You feel your face flush and your body stiffen. "I'm not doing this, Santana." You stipulate slowly. "I didn't come here to be lectured."

She chooses to remain blatantly ignorant. "What are you really waiting for Quinn?" She renders, with a shrug. "Because, I know you don't have another kidney to give her." Something snaps within you.

"Stop it!" You shout, smacking your wallet down onto the table. It is entirely uncontrollable, the wave of anger that overcomes you. With Beth's face burned at the back of your eyelids, you tell Santana the only thing you can without losing it. "It's my degree, okay? Until I finish my medical degree, I'll be out of here."

"That's bullshit." Santana slams.

Your palm connects to the table. It shudders. "You know what's bullshit? You luring me here under the pretense of 'catching up' from one friend to another. That's what's bullshit!"

Santana blanches, falling back onto her seat. Distantly, you're aware of other people's attention on the both of you, and it's demeaning.

"You're right." She concedes, color slowly returning to her face. "That was complete bullshit." Her voice is non-committal. "But it's not like there were any other ways to get you to see me."

You bolt upright, standing on your feet. "I'm going home." Your hands snappishly grapple for purchase over your wallet and coat.

"If Rachel goes to New York, there won't be a home to go to." Santana asserts.

"Bye Santana."

"Admit it." She demands as you walk away. "You're here for your father." You push the door open and leave.

…

The crisp, night air collides into you full force. You stumble, the hair on your bare arms pricking.

"Ow." It hurts. Nothing prepares you for the sting of this cold front.

Your coat lies limply in your possession, and isn't anything but a pathetic reminder of superficial protection. You want to surrender to the torment, so you go without.

The subway is the only alternative feasible - shouldn't compromise any remaining shred of dignity that matters that is. With your luck though, the train comes delayed and extraordinarily compact. You have to fight your way in so that you don't arrive home the next day.

The claustrophobia almost kills you. You're admittedly incapacitated, with an ever-soaring heart rate and an impressive production of tears taking control over your body, there's no escape or respite. When the tube pulls up at your stop, you slip out and blindly falter toward the nearest trashcan. A group of teenagers observe in disgust, as you retch into it. With no one there to hold your hair back, it gets covered in whatever it is that is being expelled. You realize, startlingly, you're terribly alone with a two-mile walk ahead of you. The revelation itself is more sickening than being sick.

Retreating away from the trashcan, there's so many ways, you feel that you can just give in to your misery. Sinking down to your knees and bowing your forehead onto the cold slab of concrete of the platform floor, for instance, sounds credible. Or pummeling the wall with you bare fists over a coarse surface is just as equitable. But it's the thought of having chosen your father over your wife; you don't believe there is anything out there that you can possibly do to remedy yourself.

Who are you? What have you become? The world you thought you understood well, spiraling out of your comprehension.

The phone vibrates suddenly in your hand, and it wakes you from the limbo-like state. Glancing down, you squint at the text from Santana.

' _You owe it to her to tell her the truth.'_

It interrupts your self-pitiful reflection, and you snap your gaze away to settle your thoughts. On cue, the group of teenagers from earlier abruptly break out into laughter. One girl takes a swig from a bottle of liquor and hurls it at the ground; shattering it into countless pieces. Her peers cheer in triumph, rewarding the girl with a drunken dance along the yellow line of the platform. She follows.

"Fuck him." She says. "Fuck them all."

"Yo sister. " A tall brazen young man approaches her dangerously near the edge. "Fuck 'em parents too."

The group laugh, there voices ringing out into the cold night, and you know you should be making your way back home. But…

"Hey kids." Your voice sounds pathetic and hoarse, but you feel increasingly confident. Ironically, it's when you're about to tell some wasted kids off.

"Fuck you too." The girl burps. The rest of them snicker, you notice now, others holding their own bottles as well.

"Go home. I've been there." You divulge. "Done that. It's not as great as you think." You say.

"What a fucking sissy!" The tall boy drones. The girl quirks an eyebrow at him. "Are you gonna call the cops?" He mocks, and you madden, just a little.

"Go home." You repeat. "Regret your stupidity, and stand to live another day."

"What are you, our mom?" Another voice pipes up from the back, but the tall boy shoves him hard that he trips over.

"Shut the fuck up Frogbert." He slanders, as you step forward at the quickly escalating situation. "I'm talking, and if this woman thinks she can butt her nose into our business I will deal with it."

He points at you with surprising accuracy. "You don't leave us now, you're going to be fucked." The girl beside him jumps, paling drastically.

"Jonathan." She mumbles.

"No. No. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!" He whirls on her, his eyes dangerously glowing. "You shut it." He spits.

He picks up his liquor and aims it at you. "You wanna stay for the show, huh?" He strides toward you, and reaches a height that is a good few inches above you.

"Not until you go home." You persist. He laughs mechanically, his jaw extending outward like there are working gears inside. It's mildly disturbing, this guy's resolve.

Hence it doesn't come as a shock when he swings at you, and you immediately duck, barely missing his fist. With a quick hand, you latch onto his nose, twisting until he finally drops the liquor and cries out. You feel the wet liquid penetrate Rachel's socks.

"I've dealt with boys like you." You say, releasing your grip on his nose. He stumbles back with a shock on his face that cannot be missed, and you put his emotional instability down to the excessive consumption of alcohol. "Go home." You warn, and he staggers around. To face his friends punily; they all stand with their mouth agape.

"Come on." He snaps woundedly, obviously not liking what he saw. In a sudden flurry of movement, they follow his lead away from the platform. The girl, however, remains defiantly still where she is.

"Thank you." She states, once they had effectively nicked off.

You smile tiredly. "Fuck them." You say.

She laughs wholesomely, her hands flailing out to the sides to keep her steady. "You're cool." She concedes, the compliment warms you.

Her balance wavers as she steps into the light and you see her more clearly than you had before. She reminds you of your youth, and perhaps, what could've been. "You should go home." You recite ruefully.

She bats her eyelashes at that. "And you should put your coat on." It sparks a reaction that you can't deny and you obey without hesitation, picking it up off the ground from where you had dropped it and sliding it around your shoulders.

She grins faintly before resuming into a shaky stroll, of which, you later mirror with better control.

...

The black night crowns above you.

For the first time in so long you follow your own advice. "I'll be going home too." You whisper. No one is there to catch your words but yourself.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: I apologise for the short chapter, and the long long wait. I don't think there's an excuse for that so I am not going to try. But I hope you all enjoy, and continue this story with me. As always, I appreciate any reviews.

...

Chapter 8

...

Rachel's P.O.V

...

Santana proffers warning of the **type** of Quinn that will come home tonight, and, as much as it is entirely disconcerting, you are glad for any Quinn that turns up at your door. Santana exchanges a somewhat repentant goodbye and you close the overly exacerbated conversation for the night. Hugging the bottle of unopened Scotch to your waist, the phone is discarded to the side and you set up camp on the front porch.

The outside light flickers briefly above the steps and incidentally, does nothing to dampen the fact that it is absolutely miserable out. The lawn is slick with frost of the cold offensive night, and the once embellished sky, is empty. No stars are there to frame the boundless horizon, no light at the dusty rear of the seemingly endless tunnel. No respite. As a flurry of wind picks up at the corner of Fifth st and Morales avenue, and hustles a slew of leaves toward the house, you rest your head against the first post of the step railings where you're seated. You want to think about Quinn. You want to think about the many hours it took to build these very front steps to the porch. You want to recall her fall perfume she wore in that summer of 2013 as she barraged those nails into planks of wood with a hammer. The very act however, of thinking anything Quinn, is painfully unhinging. Any stray yet conclusive thought, any action-inducing decision regarding her is a little too scary. She's not a choice. Not an option to be picked. There's nothing to settle, or make clear. It will work out.

"You should be inside." A voice creeps up on your self-imposed seclusion. Her hazel eyes, the crack of light in the darkness, brighten and you suddenly no longer feel like a recluse- as though you never had set up a makeshift bed on the front steps of the house. You're not alone.

"Quinn." The wind cuts off your breath. Then, slashes your lungs. No volume left or air for that matter- as you take in her appearance.

There's a moment silence, and the hazel eyes look off to the side, to a place that cannot be followed. They come back a second later, but not alone. Along with her steady gaze, she thrusts forward a hand gripped tightly around a bouquet of colored flowers.

"Oh." The surprise in the quake of your voice is undeniable. Quinn smiles, her hand trembling in front of her. She awaits tentatively for a response of some kind, and quickly, it becomes apparent that she hopes she has you in a vice, the kind of hold she wishes inescapable. "You shouldn't ha-"

"They don't do refunds." Quinn interrupts, reflexively swallowing the rasp in her voice.

"No, no. I like it. Just forget-." You take some air. "I'm sorry." Your head bows, eyes looking up to her though. You don't dare lose eye-contact with her often wandering attention. "I'm sorry I-"

"Thought it?" You almost smile. Never too taken aback by her rapid wit.

As soon as you lift yourself off the steps, she embraces you. The smell of alcohol wafting gently to your senses, seeping through your sweater. And you wonder, all the places she's been tonight. Her body imperceptibly doubled forward and her chin buried in your shoulder, tells you she's been only just where you predict.

The flowers slump on your collarbone, caressing the skin, as she continues to burrow to the nape of your neck – behind all the hair burgeoning at your shoulders. Once, it seems, she's satisfied, you only just begin to register the heat staving off of her body. It transfers to yours, as though recognizing the deep telepathic connection you both inadvertently share.

"We should go." He breath ripples along the fine hairs of your neck. You hear her remove the bouquet between you both, and from the reflection of the window looking outside, see her place it carefully in an outdoor vase.

"Hmmm?" You mumble, silently pondering whether there's even water in that vase.

"To New York." She clarifies, unmoving from her embrace. "We should go to New York." This startles you.

"We should?" The tiniest hint of masochistic intent that Quinn exhibits is slightly incensing, and as it should, informs your tone.

"If that's what you want." She enforces. You both mutually pull away – a few feet distance between, but only to regard each other. Quinn reaches for the railing, tentatively.

You shake your head, blatantly refusing the trajectory of this already ill-fated conversation. "I only want to be with you." Her face, is suddenly very telling of her troubled thoughts, though is usually unreadable.

Quinn lifts her hand a fraction - the grip she has on the porch railing relinquishing a little. "I- " She begins. You catch, what you believe is only yours to capture, the flash of uncertainty that may frequently riddle her expression. "I don't think I have been totally honest." She says.

You watch then, the slowly progressing glaze over her eyes – tears, that in its ability to expose, also shields. Behind the layer of shine, is only emotion, raw emotion. Feelings, untempered by conscience, desires disrobed and played. Untouchable, but reachable.

"You can tell me." You urge, instinctively latching onto her clenching and unclenching fists. The truth, ostensibly, so close. The silence Quinn chooses to initiate warns of the imminent wave of heaviness and burden it carries. But, all of this would not parry your determination to solve whatever problem or issue the truth exacerbates.

"My father." She says, the timbre of voice trembling. "I think- I think I want to see him." Your hands slide away from underneath hers and drop to your sides – not out of lack of support or true offense, but to hold yourself up. The heart in your chest having tripled in speed, stops briefly. The hot flushes that disperse across your skin like nasty rashes, curdles. And, under this unheard-of illness, you feel one whole side of your face fall limp.

"Oh Quinn." You gasp. Grappling onto the wooden frame of the outdoor swing set next to you, to catch the break in your knees. Only the briefest wave of fear reverberates along your body, but it's enough to spook.

"I guess I've been lying to myself. All this time." Her shoulders lift in indubitable embarrassment - the downward drift of her hazel eyes is caught however, despite your weakened state.

"Well, at least now you don't have to anymore." You whisper. Her head shakes defiantly.

"Closure. That's…" She slows. Her face half hidden in shadow, as she sways out of the porch lighting's reach.

"If closure is what you need, " You say briskly, "then maybe what we're doing is right."

"I _want_ closure." Quinn corrects. Her tone demanding. "But," She nods convincingly amidst a pause. "I want you more."

"…" You agree. More than anything you agree. How does one dispute that?

"You. Is what I need." Her voice makes you exhale when you shouldn't. Her assertion applies a certain pressure on your chest that shouldn't be too difficult to remove.

"I need you too, Quinn." You reply – because there's no other answers left. There's no other response to a statement like that. In the same way that saying "I love you," leaves no room for anything else except the same sentiment, you're trapped. A hostage situation, you once described it as - but with a terrible, terrible case of Stockholm syndrome.

She stares. The words are left hovering over the figurative bubble between you both. A disconnect almost gone unnoticed, before, the bubble inexplicably bursts. The distance pushed between you and her is closed - the sound of hurried feet shuffles along the decking manifests Quinn's approach and upon collision, she touches you. Apprehensively. Her gentle fingers so light, they're only just suspended above your cheek. And yet, they're heavy. Weighing in so harshly on the scales of Quinn's cautiousness – not to hurt, not to damage.

"You don't have to choose, Quinn." You remark. "You can have both." The truth is, you could never ask anything too much from Quinn. "It's only for a little bit, after all." With your left hand, you close the remaining gap between skin and finger. She obliges sweetly before resting them regretfully by her sides.

"I know." She glances at the floor then, the dark blonde roots showing at the top of her head. "But if you don't want me to, it's okay." She picks up her chin, with a fierce look in her eyes, as if she had gained something in turning away. "You have a right to be angry. To want to make me leave with you. " The bustling of emotions, you've learnt to decipher over the years of engaging in the greatest study of your life, Quinn Fabray, makes an appearance. She stumbles on doubt, fear, then anguish.

"Hell, Rachel you should be angry. You should be pissed."

"I can't be angry with you." Quinn looks to you fretfully, with worry. Her expression, a deer caught in headlights. "I've been hard to talk to ever since-" Your throat involuntarily shuts, and you gag. The reflex somehow triggered. "Since-" Nothing comes out. No sound. Eyes burning and vision blurring, your hands fumble for purchase over Quinn, the swing-set no longer sufficient to keep you standing.

"I'm here." She says promptly, leaning into you. You grab her as though a blind woman. Fingernails caught in the wool of her sweater, feeling- feeling things because sight isn't enough. _I'm here_ , and you imagine her saying that through a computer screen, or over the phone, or somewhere faraway and to think it's the same...

"I'm here." Quinn repeats, snaking her arms around your waist to hold you. Alcohol aside, she smells like roses, the soap you use dressed all over the woman you love. And it's moments like these, when you really need your wife, that you miss Quinn's vanilla bean scent. You miss the soap she buys from Kurt, and regret ever insisting on using otherwise.

"Go see your father. I want you to go see your father." You say.

Quinn's eyes widen slightly.

"I know you Quinn. You have never left a stone unturned. I want you to have that resolution. Even if I think it's not going to be a happy one. You deserve to know whatever truth he has to offer."

"If there is truth." She corrects.

"Even more reason to see him."

"Rachel, I think," She hiccups, without any warning. She raises her palm though, to signal she will be fine. After a breath, she continues. "This charade – it's to find whether he deserves to be in my life or not. That's the truth I think I'm looking for." She stares severely at you – fearfully almost. "But I mean, I should already know right? After he left my mom at her weakest, and just left her to rot alone."

"Quinn."

"I left her too. " She says quietly. "I left her too."

"You had a reason to, Quinn. That's different."

"I'm not much better than him. If he deserves to have no one, maybe so do I. But, I have you, and he has his mistress." She hiccups again, but the tears, are strangely nowhere to be seen. "He's the only family I have left. If Beth chooses to remove me from her life-"

"She would never do that." You cut. Reassurance, you believe, is the only thing you can offer at this point.

"You can't guarantee it though, can you? I am not a good person to be around."

"Yes. Yes, you are Quinn." You say, and promise – to yourself particularly, not that you're in need of convincing. "You are good for me."

"I just- I just wouldn't blame her if she didn't want me interfering."

"You are not an interference." Quinn bites her lip, her eyes finally watering.

"I am interfering with the normal type of life she could have. She has a mom already. Soon, she's going to have a father. I don't need to make it any more complicated than it already is."

"She loves you, Quinn." Your voice breaks unexpectedly, and you almost stop talking altogether to prevent any further display of unchecked emotions, but there are some things, you know, that cannot be avoided. "You can't just leave her." You tell Quinn.

"But I will. " She nods. "I'm going to live in New York with you."

"We'll still visit."

"And that's just going to make it harder." Quinn presses. "Harder on her. I think it's better to just sever the tie."

"Don't you dare say that Quinn." She falls silent. Plainly, interpreting what you said with a subtle face, before shaking her head in disagreement.

"No."

"She is your family, Quinn. Regardless of what you say, or think - she loves you, and you love her. That's what matters. And I can promise you she'd much rather see you on occasion than not at all." You blurt, heedlessly, in desperate measure.

"You say that personally." Quinn deduces- obviously seeing through words and literal meanings, and straight to context. "As if I had done that to you before."

Quietly – in stride, she bores down to the heart of her argument, with a strength you've grown to love. "Beth makes this decision, not me or you. I'm allowing her to choose her family, which is more than I ever got." She swallows a quick breath. "I never had the chance to run away – Child Protective Services wouldn't even take me. And now I'm branded. Plagued by memories that don't fade, but get clearer day by day, and haunted by the choices I make as a result."

"…" _Quinn_ , you want to interject. _Quinn_ , you want to argue. But your voice is somehow silenced by Quinn's incrementally increasing levels of rage.

"So I can't run away." She explains. "I need to know that my father isn't going to force himself into Beth's life and ruin it too. He didn't just move here to marry. He came because I was here and so was his granddaughter. Someone as malicious as him, someone as-as cruel as him, would have no other reason to come here – if not to destroy, torture, maim."

"Under these kind of circumstances, I would normally say," You start carefully, after some long pause – and finding bearing in time. "Don't be so quick to make judgements about people, especially bad judgements. But, I can find the exception here." _Show agreement where you can,_ you recall Dr Beckwith mentioning _, and pure intention where you can't._ "Just… I don't want you to rule out the possibility that he's merely exercising his right to be close to his daughter and granddaughter."

"And what? There's nothing strictly evil in that?" Quinn bristles.

"Maybe not." You venture. "He's not all black or white, Quinn. Neither are you. Neither am I."

"He's just mostly black." She replies sullenly, resignedly - the green in the hazel of her eyes disappearing briefly. "He's just… Russel Fabray. Who abused me. Who manipulated people. Outed me in church in front of friends and family. Kicked me out of my own home when I got knocked up. Made me think I was sick. Made me believe I was worthless. Told me stories about dead daughters who betrayed their fathers. Just a man – who took away my happiness."

"I'm sorry, Quinn."

"And then the white. Gave me things, like intelligence. Ambition. Resourcefulness. Which, I then used to hurt people." She looks at you, heavily. "Well, I apologise if they're overlooked."

"No one's asking you to apologise, Quinn. It's only, when you see your father, I don't want you to be angry. I don't want you to give him more attention than he deserves. Whether you would like admit to it or not, he still has some power over you – when you let it. "

"I won't be angry." She refutes, tucking a stray strand of blonde hair behind her ear like second thought. "I'll be cool, calculated and calm."

"That's what I am worried about." You grab her hand that flails loosely by her side, and pull her closer towards you. "That's what I'm worried about. They're basically the same thing when it comes to you."

She doesn't say anything, but her bottom lip tremors, as though something truly fearful has come of this. Fear - the emotion of Quinn's that scares you the most.

"I won't lose control." She convinces.

...

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